The Trouble with Orchids
by Mel88
Summary: Everybody calls him Squid, and he has but one mission: destroy the Malfoy family. No one can take it from him – not the MLE, not Granger, and certainly not the ferret himself. However, they are welcome to try.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: A huge "Thank you!" to the wonderful Renee, who Brit-picked, kept my grammar straight, gave excellent editorial advice, and turned these chapters around in record time! This story is rated 'M' for violence, profanity, implicit sexual situations, and some slash, all of which is in this first chapter, so please don't from it. ;)

**Chapter One**

Everybody calls him Squid.

This isn't his name. Of course it isn't. What parent in his or her right mind would name their child after a cephalopod, even the most impressive one? He has a real name, most assuredly, and it is a decent name, too – nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed by. But his peers had been incredibly insistent and, despite some initial arguing on his part, they began to persuade him. By the end of his first year, he had accepted the moniker. By the end of his second, he actually enjoyed it. And, as time passed and he grew into himself, Squid started to realize that the nickname suited him better than his given name.

So, he stuck with it.

And now, everybody calls him Squid.

Fortunately, saying that the name suited him did not just backhandedly describe his enjoyment of seafood, his lanky, too-long appendages, or his large, eerily glassy eyes. It also described the quality of his movement – fast and darting, never in one place for too long – and his knack for hiding in plain sight. Squid were adept at camouflage of all sorts. As perfectly adapted to living in colorful, teeming reefs as the darkest, loneliest recesses of the ocean, squid could change not only the color, but also the texture of their bodies in less than a second. If that didn't work, they could escape with a blast of ink.

It therefore seemed natural for Squid to adopt camouflage as _his_ specialty. It took years of training, but he finally mastered the art. He excels at physical transfigurations, the construction and maintenance of illusions, and the sight-altering charms he could cast upon others. And he is probably the single biggest buyer of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder the Weasleys have ever had. But his favorite method of disguise is the Polyjuice Potion. The ability to take on an entirely new form is addictively freeing. He bathes in the anonymity of it, aches for the stinging, ripping, breaking, and rearranging of his body. Of his life.

He does not bother with a concealment tonight, however. The rain comes down in buckets, scattering the usual throng of Diagon Alley patrons like cockroaches exposed to sunlight. His brisk pace, dark robe, and deep hood shield him from general notice, but he cannot help but feel paranoid. His eyes flit from stranger to stranger, ever watchful, ever wary, but they take no notice. Their eyes slide over him as if he is underwater and they are caught in the sun's glare, seeing nothing more than their own reflection. He smirks, happy to have achieved anonymity without magic's aid. _That_ is true mastery, and Squid feels proud of it.

After a few more minutes of fast-paced travel, he casts surreptitious glances to the left and right, then makes a sharp right into Trapsina Row – a corridor about as wide as two of him abreast, or one average person. Near the end of the alleyway, distinguished with a sign so miniscule it barely counts as a sign at all, is Afflicshun's Apothecary.

He hesitates for a moment before opening the rotting door. Afflicshun's isn't a new establishment by any stretch of the imagination, but it is new to him. The decision to make the change is not one he has made lightly, but it was one he deems necessary. He had attained an uncomfortably high level of recognition at his old apothecary – Harronbum's, in Knockturn Alley.

It was a series of what Squid now realizes were unacceptably sloppy mistakes that led to this undesirable familiarity with Walther Harronbum, the wizened owner of the store that shared his name. He was fresh from Hogwarts when he first sought Harronbum's services, and, though he recognized the need for disguise, he did not know how best to do it. Polyjuice Potion was easiest, so that was what he used. Acquiring Muggle hair was simple enough, and he would use the same Muggle only two to four times in a row before tossing out his stash and procuring more.

Because Harronbum's is a rather dodgy establishment, it is not uncommon to see someone once or twice and then never again. But a steady flow of 'strangers' who visited at semi-regular intervals and required rare, sub-legal materials was bound to attract attention. He should have known: Knockturn Alley may house unsavory figures, but it was a mistake to equate seedy with foolish. In fact, one could argue that Harronbum and his associates are sharper than most. Observation is key in a world where illicit trade makes more than a small blip on the Ministry's radar.

Squid's behavior was subtle enough that it took nearly two years before Harronbum pieced together that the 'strangers' who came in asking for Boomslang skin and Valerian root were actually just one person. Or, it took him two years before he made the connection known to Squid, addressing him as 'Mr Miatta' when he was disguised as 'Madam Therone.' This was accompanied by a deeply significant glance. Squid read it clearly under Harronbum's substantial, salt-and-pepper eyebrows.

Harronbum would never speak to anyone else about what he knew, or what he suspected he knew. Such chatter would be a flagrant breach of the unspoken accord among the patrons of Knockturn. Neither would he ever bring it up again. But he would never forget that information and, if a deal ever went sour, Harronbum would not hesitate to spill if it would save his own hide, customer loyalty be damned.

Hell, Squid would do the same thing.

Still, he wishes that he did not have to change. Harronbum's had served him well for a very long time. He was punctual, efficient, and – though he price-gouged mercilessly whenever Squid came in with a special, often illegal request – discreet. He could not ask for anything more from his apothecary and can only hope Afflicshun's will provide service that is half as satisfactory.

When Squid sees the man behind the counter, that hope immediately dies. The man behind the counter is far too familiar and, if Squid's memory can be counted on (and it can) had never had a reputation for subtlety. Squid instantly wants nothing to do with him. He pivots, planning to flee, but he is paralyzed by a memory.

He ran once before. Has he forgotten the consequences of that particular flight? He saved his own skin and lost something irreplaceable because of it. Has he forgotten his vow? The promise he made to never run again?

He has not, and he will not be reneging on it now, especially considering from whom he would be running.

The icy fear flooding his veins is obliterated by scorching anger. Squid breaks out in chills. Why should he run? Squid deserves to be here more than _he_ does. And this is a place of business – the only shop Squid had researched thoroughly enough to feel confident in patronizing. He needs those ingredients_ today_. There is not time to find another apothecary.

Cool determination soothes his skin, and Squid pivots again. Slowly, he lifts his hands and lowers his hood. The man behind the counter stills completely as their eyes meet. They stare at each other for a long minute while the rain pounds outside. After an eternity, the man behind the counter tears his eyes away, in shame or embarrassment or because he finally recognizes him. Squid does not know which; he is not good at reading emotions. He takes a steadying breath and begins his task.

He moves through the shop quickly and, in no less than two minutes, sets his purchases onto the counter. The man behind the counter rings him up slowly, but not because he doesn't know how. His movements are controlled, precise, as if he doesn't want to damage the delicate phials of harpy spit or rip the delicate package of powdered griffon claw.

Squid appreciates his care. It would take no effort at all for the man behind the counter to destroy not only all of his purchases, but Squid himself. His limbs are too big for his body, too bulky and muscled. Squid absently wonders what he was doing in a cramped apothecary, and then he glances the man's hands.

Calling them "battered" would understate the severity of the visible damage. Each knuckle is bruised, the skin stretched over them mottled purple to blue to green to sickly yellow. More than a few are split open. Most are thickly scabbed, but one is bandaged, and Squid can see maroon blood staining the white-grey cotton.

The sight comforts him. Here is evidence that even the strongest could bleed. The man behind the counter can break Squid's body into two without breaking a sweat, but he can be hurt, too.

Squid can hurt him.

In that moment, the man ceases to be a threat. Squid even smirks as he places his gold into those battered hands. The man behind the counter is human.

The illusion is broken.

The entire transaction takes five minutes, and Squid leaves without saying a word. The trip is a small sort of victory, but he doubts he will ever go back. No matter how fulfilling it felt to stand before that man and prove his strength by mere existence, it is against his nature to associate with the familiar. The man behind the counter is not an enemy, not a threat, but is a complication.

Squid has not survived for so long by ignoring complications.

Only one month passes before Squid needs to darken Afflicshun's doorstep once again. Squid scowls into his cauldron, but that is the nature of experimental potions: he rarely knows what he needs nor how much of it until he is halfway through. Buy too much and he has not only wasted gold, but space and effort. Buy too little – like this time – and he has to run back before doing the due diligence on another apothecary.

He dons his cloak, tucks his wand into his sleeve, and hesitates, his hand resting on the doorknob.

The weather is overcast today, but there is no hint of rain. More people will be out. He should disguise himself.

_Should_.

It is his habit, his protection, but today it feels wrong. It feels like running. Like hiding. Like fear. And Squid isn't afraid. Even if the man behind the counter will not recognize him while Polyjuiced, it feels unfair to face him as someone else, especially considering their history.

He knows pride or resolve or some other stupid emotion is clouding his judgment. He knows it is a mistake. He knows he will eventually regret it.

He does it anyway.

Squid takes a twisting, turning route to Afflicshun's to help assuage his paranoia and, by the time he arrives in the dark alley, he feels surprisingly better. He opens the door without hesitation and meets the shopkeeper's eyes. They stare at each other for a moment that is not as intense or prolonged as last time. It is a stare of recognition and mutual acceptance.

Squid is content to leave all of their communication nonverbal, but the man behind the counter apparently does not feel the same.

"You're that kid."

Squid looks up, meeting the man's eyes once more. Squinty eyes, he realizes now. Dark, with heavy eyebrows.

"You're that kid," the man repeats. "The one with the br –"

Squid hisses – _literally_ hisses – his displeasure. The man's eyes open wide in surprise.

"You're that guy," Squid growls in return. "The one with the de –"

The man slams his hand onto the counter, cutting off the rest of his sentence. He draws his hand away, revealing Squid's change. Squid takes it and leaves with a scowl, but knows he will return. He and the man behind the counter have an understanding now.

Afflicshun's has just become his new apothecary. No disguise required.

Two months pass. Months that see little success for Squid. The potion he is attempting to create –a variant of Polyjuice that could provide disguise for an entire day without needing to be refreshed – keeps failing his animal trials. Lucky for him, his filthy domicile is never short on vermin, but he has to go thieving to restock his gold and, thusly, his ingredients.

He is bizarrely excited for his visit to Afflicshun's, but keeps his face impassive as he passes through the threshold. The man's eyebrows shoot up when he walks through the door and lowers his hood, as per their routine. When Squid lays his purchases on the counter, the man speaks.

"Didn't think I'd see you again. Thought I scared you off."

"I do not run away," Squid replies slowly, emphasizing each syllable.

The man nods. As if he understands. As if he comprehends. As if such a thing is possible.

"You're-"

"Squid," he interjects sharply. "If you really must know."

The man thinks for a minute. "Ape."

Squid meets Ape's eyes and really looks. They are hard, glittering, and reflect a damage that Squid feels. He nods once, takes his change and his bag, and leaves, feeling for the first time in years that he may not be entirely alone on this planet.

Two weeks later, it is Squid who initiates the conversation.

"Do you take special requests?"

Ape lifts both heavy eyebrows. Squid already knows the answer. He would not be at Afflicshun's if they did not. Ape does not know Squid knows that. This is a true test of their understanding.

Ape nods after a moment's consideration. Squid feels like he has won. "Manager does. He's out for the day. Come back tomorrow."

"No." Another eyebrow lift. "I need the order in today, and I need it placed _discreetly_."

"The manager…"

"I do not care about the bloody _manager_." His sharp tone edges the already tinny silence. He breathes deeply, attempting to stay calm. He did not expect to meet this kind of resistance from Ape, though he has prepared for it, just as he prepares for everything else.

"Take my order, Ape. You will not be sorry." He slides a Sickle across the counter.

Ape's eyes widen. He palms the coin and withdraws a ledger. Despite his initial reluctance, it seems like Ape has done this before. Squid smirks, pleased at the maneuver. Ape is not an idiot; he waits until the moment of maximum benefit before acting. It is an admirable trait.

He pushes a scrap of parchment across the counter next and studies Ape's expression intently as he unfolds it.

"Class Five Untradeable, that is," he grunts.

Squid's smirk widens. It is another test. "By Thursday. No later." It is Monday. Ape shoots him a quick, appraising glance, then nods. Squid is once again pleased: Ape has passed.

"Shouldn't be a problem. Fifty Galleons, give or take a few Sickles. I trust you'll come prepared."

Squid nods. "Thursday?"

"Two a.m., Thursday morning. Whisper your name to the broken brick two feet to the left of the door."

Squid smiles at this, his first genuine smile in a long time. _This_ is discreet. He likes discreet.

Two days feels like an eternity.

Heavily cloaked and shrouded in darkness, Squid makes his way through the deserted streets like a rat, darting from shadow to shadow. He finds the broken brick and whispers, "Squid." He is afraid for a moment that Ape meant his _real_ name and feels a rush of relief as a narrow corridor reveals itself. He squeezes through to what must be the back of the shop. He turns around to look for Ape and nearly pisses himself when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

He does not flinch, though, and even manages to remain impassive when he turns around to face his dealer. How a man Ape's size can look so small behind a counter is a mystery Squid feels confident he will never solve. He is massive. Barrel-chested and broad, positively _hulking_. Squid feels vulnerable: he is almost six feet tall, but scrawny and weak. His only comfort is that, if Ape _does_ choose to attack, Squid has a vial or two of poison that will knock the big man out for at least an hour. That is more than enough time to escape.

There is no need for self-defense tonight, however. Ape holds out his hand.

"Fifty-two Galleons."

Squid swallows his annoyance. The price hike is a sign of good faith – a test for Squid – and he cannot begrudge his coworker a small bonus for his troubles. Squid sets the bag of gold into Ape's waiting palm and waits for him to inspect it. He pockets it, finding its weight satisfactory, and passes Squid's package over. Squid holds the tiny vial to what little light the moon affords them. The venom glimmers like oil in water, thick and dangerous. Perfect.

He smiles at Ape and nods. "Until next time."

Next time is a season away, but not much has changed about the shop or the alley except for the weather. When once it was soaked with rain, it is now packed with snow. An altogether more inconvenient circumstance, as Squid has to turn every few feet to erase his tracks. By the time he reaches the shop, it is late. Ape is closing up.

"Squid," he says by way of greeting.

"Ape. Just need a few things. Won't take more than a minute." The large man hesitates, then nods.

Squid is true to his word. Two minutes later, both he and Ape stand on the doorstep of Afflicshun's.

"Join me at the pub?"

Squid pauses and considers the large man for a long moment. The pub… He has not been to a pub in ages, preferring to drink and wallow alone at home. He is nothing but a disgrace to himself there, vomiting or pissing all over himself before passing out face-down in a puddle of whatever sick had escaped him, only to wake up crusty and nauseated all over again. Tears always threaten soon after, but the physical pain of the night before always staves off the emotional hurt. It is not a ritual he relishes, but it is one that works.

Maybe this can work, too. Squid recognizes a brokenness in Ape that mirrors his own. He sees, too, evidence of Ape's own self-destructive patterns. His bloodied and bruised knuckles have not disappeared and there is a shadow of a scrape on his chin. He feels a kinship with Ape that he never thought could exist. Why not try?

They walk in silence through knee-high drifts toward the Bloodied Maiden, one of Knockturn's seedier establishments, where the glasses are dirty and the women are worse. They sit at an ill-lit corner table and drink.

And drink.

They drink until closing. Squid sways when he stands, wrestling himself into his cloak. Ape handles his booze better. He is (thankfully) steady on his feet. Squid cannot imagine having to support the man if he fell or stumbled. Something shifts in his eyes, however, and Squid wonders if they have more in common than just being broken. He is drunk enough to find out.

"Want to go back to my place?"

Ape hesitates for good reason. Blokes like them do not just invite each other over for a nightcap without an ulterior motive. Then again, blokes like them do not typically invite each other to pubs late at night without a motive of their own.

Squid _has_ the motive. He has never had an interest in sex for the emotional benefit, but he is a man. There is no denying the physical pleasure of it. Squid denies himself rigorously in most aspects of his life, but he refuses to deny his lust. Usually he has to pay for it, but if he can indulge tonight for free, all the better.

He does not mind the disconnect – the sex without the attachment. He has never felt connected to anyone in that way, not since his loss, and not before that either, he recalls. He has tried to fake it, tried to replicate infatuation with both sexes, but the masquerade is excruciating and exhausting. Dismissal, rejection, abuse, humiliation… These are the emotional tolls of love, and they are too high for Squid to pay.

He considers explaining all this to Ape. Maybe he would say yes if he understands what Squid wants, or rather, does not want. But either Ape is keyed to nuances, or Squid is better at expressing himself than he thought.

"My place," is Ape's reply. They exit the bar together.

Squid does not know how it happened. It begins as Side-Along Apparation and ends with Ape's body colliding with his. And then he is bent over the arm of a couch, and his pants are around his ankles, and there is intense pain and exquisite fulfillment. No emotion, no connection. Only movement. Intimate contact. Instinctual rutting.

And it _works_.

The numbness lasts until he gets home. Once ensconced in his room, however, the trembling begins. It lasts through the night, punctuated occasionally by fits of joyful sobbing.

It works. There is something better. There is someone else.

There is _Ape_.

They develop a routine. It is unlike him to do so. Routines are dangerous. If he is predictable, someone can recognize him, connect him to things that he ought not to be connected to. But denying himself is dangerous too, and in this case, the benefits of a liaison far outweigh the risk.

Whenever he needs potion ingredients, and soon, whenever he needs something more, Squid arrives at Afflicshun's just before closing. The manager is never in, preferring to handle black-market trade from the comfort of his sitting room in a small flat in a nicer part of Diagon Alley. Ape is responsible for the daily happenings in the apothecary.

Daily happenings like Ape fucking Squid on the till with the curtains still open. Or experimenting with the more innocuous ingredients whose effects caused body parts to swell, or burn, or tingle. Or forgoing the pub in favor of climbing the rickety, narrows stairs to Ape's three-room apartment above the shop and fucking there.

They never kiss. They never murmur sweet nothings. Never even touch one another more than is necessary to achieve mutual satisfaction. It is impersonal, almost professional, and Squid is determined to keep it that way.

Then, one late night, their dalliance is more violent than usual. Ape's blow to his head knocks him out, and Squid wakes several hours later in Ape's bed, with Ape himself sitting nearby, simply watching with his dark, calm eyes. The feeling of invasion is at once so exhilarating and horrifying that Squid momentarily entertains the idea of pretending again, and instead of sounding ludicrous, the idea is compelling.

It is months before Ape asks Squid to stay the night. Neither of them sleep. They lay in the small bed, not touching, and talk about their pasts. They compare experiences, agonize over mistakes, make useless excuses, and do not bother with apologies.

They talk at great length about their brokenness. They talk about the root of it, the hatred they feel, the all-consuming desire for revenge and justice. They discover their common cause and, for the first time in long, long while, Squid feels like he has an ally. An ally with the resources he lacks and whose reason matches his own in form, if not in passion.

He has imagined what he would do if the pieces were somehow able to fall into place. Despite this constant planning, it takes more than a month to assemble his ideas into something sensible. It takes another week to work up the courage to bring Ape into his plan and an enthusiastic fellatio to convince him to agree to it.

At Ape's silent nod, Squid feels an arousal that has nothing to do with the man before him. He smiles and, with a sudden show of strength, flips Ape over and drives into him. The control is new and intoxicating, and it is not long before he loses himself in it, finishing far too quickly. But this is not the last time. No, this is just the beginning.

It is May 4.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

**May 30**

Draco Malfoy sat on his old, comfortable sofa, naked but for a pair of silk boxer shorts. He flicked his wand lazily at the television and watched with glazed, silver eyes as the channels changed. A man in overalls with one red and one green suspender gestured to a roll of duct tape and a few lengths of white tubing. _Flick_. Three men on a large boat dangled long poles over its stern and chatted animatedly against a bright blue sky. One rod went taut and all three turned away from the camera. One grabbed a net. _Flick_. A man in camouflage – which Draco thought was a misnomer as _he_ could still see the man perfectly well – held up the head of a dead stag and smiled proudly. _Flick_. A woman in a tight purple jumpsuit held out a bottle of pills and flashed a brilliant smile. Her hair was too blonde to be natural; Draco took it as a personal affront. _Flick_. A violently yellow cartoon sponge talked to a squirrel with a glass bowl over its head. Both were underwater.

He sneered and took another sip of his drink: a cheap Canadian whiskey he had found at the liquor store in town. It did not have the melt-your-intestines, knock-you-flat-with-one-glass blaze that was distinctly Ogden's, but a few tumblers had him feeling comfortably mellow, although not nearly mellow enough to watch the sponge continue its pineapple-bound antics. And did that snail just _meow_? He shook his head at the lunacy; sitting through _this_ program would require at least two more glasses.

He knew because he'd done it before.

A final flick made the screen go black; he wasn't in the mood for absurdity tonight. The small cottage plunged into darkness and silence. Draco hated Muggle programming. He had lived with it for almost two and a half years now and had yet to see anything with merit other than a United States-based police drama that his aerial received intermittently at best.

He supposed the poor reception was a product of where he lived: a few miles west of a small, heavily wooded Muggle community called Lion's Head on the Canadian shore of Lake Huron. It was about two hundred and sixty miles away from the nearest Ministry of Magic – located in Ottawa – but only sixty miles away from the nearest wizarding town, Greyfarer's Rest.

He had only visited Ottawa once. The day he arrived, in fact. He had never been to North America before and had been amazed at how strongly Wizarding Ottawa reminded him of Wizarding London. The same crazed, almost frantic pace at which people moved. The same cheery exchange of gold for goods. The same, barely restrained whimsy and delight at the magic they had all grown up with. It was too much the same, in fact. When a mother and father walked down the street with their child, Draco imagined shopping for cauldrons and telescopes before starting Hogwarts with his own parents. When a trio of teenagers passed him talking of nothing but brooms, Draco was reminded of Goyle and, with a small wave of sadness, Crabbe.

He left that same day and had not been back once.

Greyfarer's Rest was much more to his liking, and he graced its dour streets with his equally dour presence four times a year. It was a small town and aptly named, with grey buildings and grey streets and, more often than not, a grey sky. Draco never saw the same faces on any two trips and, if he did, they were unlikely to see his. People kept their eyes down in the Rest, kept to themselves, which is exactly what he wanted. They even wore Muggle clothing. This saved him a great deal of trouble: his robes were packed away in the bottom of his trunk and undoubtedly years out of fashion.

He would visit only for an hour or two to exchange his gold into Muggle money and pop into the pub to buy a case or two of Butterbeer, and, since Muggle swill was so infuriatingly tame, several bottles of Canadian firewhiskey. Gutrot, the local brand was called. Another accurate name. These Canadians were clearly on to something.

He would stay longer – maybe have a drink or two and catch up on the local gossip – but he had once made the mistake of asking if they received The Daily Prophet there. Yes, the one from England. The entire pub had fallen silent and all eyes had turned to him. Draco felt his cheeks flame red. He had knocked back his drink and left with a firm frown. From then on, he took care to darken his damningly characteristic platinum hair whenever he visited. He doubted the barman would recognize him, but one could never be too careful, even in the Rest.

One could never be too careful. Draco had never lived by those words before, but now they were his gospel. He thought them before he went to bed each night when he recast his security jinxes. He thought them when he woke up the morning, usually with a roaring hangover and a similarly inconvenient erection, and was tempted – _so tempted_ – to seek relief in one of the few decent-looking local women. He never did. That would be the _opposite_ of careful. Hell, that would be plain stupid.

Draco was through with being stupid.

He sighed and took another sip, rolling the liquor over his tongue, willing it to burn hotter, to start a fire in his belly instead of his loins, but he was a man and this was alcohol. The outcome was predictable, and when combined with his solitude, was a recipe for one pitiful, lonely night and another pitiful, lonely morning.

He set his glass down. His hands traveled south – a journey oft taken – and a beautiful girl with wide, innocent eyes and thick hair danced across his imagination. She was completely naked, her breasts large and perky, her nipples dusky, her lips full and pink, her lust-filled eyes only for him. It was his routine and he fell into it with a heavy moan, allowing his mind to wander free for its second allotted moment per day.

It was going so peacefully (and rather creatively, as the doe-eyed girl had taken the liberty of tying him up tonight) until a loud alarm pierced the quiet. His fantasy disappeared in less than an instant and Draco bolted upright. With one wave of his wand, the noise ceased. It wasn't like anyone else could hear it, but it was rather loud and he needed to focus. He moved across his small living room in two large steps and reached toward the mantle above his fireplace, where sat a grimy and foul-looking gremlin figurine. He grabbed it and held it up to his face.

"How many?" he whispered.

"Four," the gremlin whispered back, its grey-green lips hardly moving. "Two're already at the door."

Three swift knocks indicated that the gremlin was indeed correct. Draco cursed violently and slammed it back on its shelf, where it spouted profanities to rival his own.

He had no time to deal with the gremlin's hurt feelings, however. Strangers – four _magical_ strangers – had found him. He had prepared for this eventuality, of course, but never imagined it would happen so soon. He stood next to the door with his back against the wall, wand drawn and a compendium of hexes just waiting to be used. For a fleeting moment, he thought of trousers. Bah, there was no time for trousers!

"Who's there?" he growled, loud enough so that the stranger could hear him. "Declare yourselves!"

"Hermione Granger, officer of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic, London, England. I have a matter to discuss with Draco Lucius Malfoy. May I come in?"

Draco swore silently. Of all people, it had to be her. "A little late for house calls, don't you think?"

"Not where I'm from, it isn't."

"You're not in London anymore."

"Well spotted, ferret-face."

Draco's sneer turned into a full-on scowl. Of all people who could possibly make the situation even _worse_.

"Sod off, Weasley!"

"Malfoy, the sooner you open this door, the sooner you'll be rid of us."

The logic of the statement appealed to him as much as her high-pitched exasperation did not.

"Tell me now," he countered.

Weasley muttered something unintelligible. Draco assumed it was rude as well.

"It's too sensitive to discuss through a door," Hermione ground out from between clenched teeth. "Let us in, _please_!"

"But a bit risky for me, isn't it? Admitting strangers this late at night?"

"Are you asking me to prove my identity?" Draco gestured at the door to continue – foolishly, he realized after he did it, as she couldn't see him. She understood anyway and sighed in irritation. Well, at least he was doing something right.

"You are Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, neé Black. You were in Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and attempted to kill Headmaster Dumbledore our sixth year."

He snarled. "Anyone would know that."

She cleared her throat and continued in a softer voice, one that only he and Weasley could hear. "I slapped you in the face our third year for laughing at Hagrid. We saved your life twice during the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Shite." Desire and drunkenness instantly quenched, Draco put his hand on the doorknob and hesitated.

Granger. Of all the women on the bloody planet, it had to be _Granger_. Granger, whom he had seen tortured on his drawing room floor. Granger, who had screamed and cried and begged while he stood by uselessly, frozen in horror, torn between a desire to help and a desire to flee. Granger, who had witnessed this turmoil and knew him better than most others because of it. Granger, who had spoken for him at the trial despite all of that.

She was the one witch whom Draco would have been fine with never seeing again in his life.

She was the one witch to whom Draco owed more than he could ever repay.

And the know-it-all little swot _would_ be the one to find him first. Not to mention that idiot lackey of hers…

The ginger devil's fist pounded the door. "Malfoy, this is official business. Your reluctance could be interpreted as obstruction of justice, and it's awfully suspicious. The Aurors Office would be more than happy to take you in on it!"

If Draco was thinking clearly, he would have countered with his right to deny entry to his domicile without a warrant, and that mere _suspicion_ of wrongdoing wasn't enough to transport someone all the way back to bloody London. But as it was, he had imbibed two glasses of whiskey, which, no, was not enough to watch the sea sponge cartoon but, yes, was enough to make Weasley's threats seem credible.

He growled and yanked open the door, wand raised before him. Though her face and body were swathed in the deep night shadows, he could see the grey outline of Hermione's outstretched arm and the faintly luminous wand tip that was pointed right at his chest. Weasley's was similarly positioned, though Draco could see even less of him.

"Lower your wand." Her voice was low and authoritative.

"You first."

She scoffed. "Unlikely."

"I'm outnumbered, Granger. Tell your two goons and this idiot to leave, then I'll consider it."

Hermione hesitated and Draco heard her small, sharp intake of breath. He supposed she was surprised. "They're here on assignment."

"And I'm here for her protection," Weasley added.

It was Draco's turn to scoff. "The assignment's buggered unless they shove off. And I always assumed you were capable of defending yourself, Granger. Or was the _brightest bint in our year_ nonsense just that?"

"It was not nonsense," she growled softly, and – though it was hard to tell – he thought he heard a bit of damaged pride. "Give me a moment." She took a few steps away from the door and pulled Weasley with her. She spoke to him quietly, but not quietly enough.

"Ron, you have to go."

"Fat chance."

"You shouldn't even be here. I told you I didn't need you."

"You don't know what you need."

Hermione hissed in displeasure, her fingers shifting to better grip her wand. Draco let out a barking laugh.

"There's nothing I enjoy more than a bickering couple on my doorstep in the middle of the night," Draco said with a sarcastic sigh. "And though I'm required by genetics to have some sympathy for my sex… Weasley? You're a fucking moron." Ron growled and shuffled Hermione a few steps further into the darkness. He otherwise ignored Draco's commentary.

"You just haven't had as much field experience as I have. I don't want Malfoy to trick or catch you off-gua –"

"Ronald Weasley, need I remind you of what happened last time we had this conversation?"

"Beaten by a _girl_, Weasley? Are you _completely_ useless?" Draco asked in his haughtiest tone.

"Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!"

"The both of you shut it!" Hermione snapped. "Malfoy, you will not say another word."

"I'd like to see you stop me. That was seven."

"And _you_, Ronald," she said, never breaking stride, "are leaving. _Now_. Baker, Dell?" she called, louder. Two large but otherwise indistinct shapes shuffled in the darkness beyond. "Apparate with Auror Weasley to the Canadian Ministry and grab a Portkey to London. I have this handled."

"Hermione…"

"Officer Granger, Auror Weasley is right. This untrustworthy piece of scum –"

"I am well aware of your opinion, _Baker_, and have told you repeatedly that I refuse to tolerate bigotry on my squad. Leave now and I'll consider leaving it out of my report. And don't you dare _Hermione_ me, Ronald. Leave, all of you! _Now_!"

Her tone, which hadn't brooked argument before, turned absolutely lethal. Weasley and Baker grumbled. Dell, apparently the wisest of the bunch, had remained silent through the whole ordeal. All three Disapparated, leaving only Hermione on his doorstep, nearly shaking with rage.

"Well, that was entertaining. Now that you've reduced my problem by seventy-five percent, I'd say it's time to call it a night." He made to shut the door on her but her foot was faster, wedging itself between the frame and the solid oak paneling.

"You said you'd let me in."

"I lied."

"Well I wasn't. I need to talk to you."

"Remove your foot, or I'll remove it for you."

"That'd be assaulting an officer."

"And you're breaking and entering."

She removed her foot with a loud huff. He began to shut the door when she said quickly, "There's been an incident. It involves your parents."

Draco's heart skipped a beat and he paused with the door half-shut. His parents? He hadn't heard anything from them for months. Then again, transoceanic flights were astonishingly difficult, bordering on impossible, even for the most resilient birds. Still, if it had been a true emergency, they would have found some way to contact him directly.

Right?

Draco yanked the door back open and studied her closely. He found little, as she remained shrouded in darkness.

"What is it?"

"Let me in."

He hesitated. It was _Granger_. Bane and boon but – and he hated to admit it – trustworthy.

Draco growled his assent. "You have ten minutes."

He stepped aside, storming toward the whiskey. Hermione waved her wand and the cottage was illuminated with soft, flattering light. She closed and locked his door, then cast several other charms. Wards, he suspected, though who knew what she thought she was protecting. Draco poured himself a generous three fingers and looked at her properly for the first time in several years.

She had wide, innocent eyes, deep brown and just as fathomless as the forest at night, bright even in the soft light, and full of curiosity as she scrutinized his ramshackle home. He set down his whiskey as his loins twitched. When had her eyes become so dangerous? And how had he never noticed them before?

At last, she turned her powerful eyes back to him. They narrowed and she stood with her arms akimbo.

"How did you know about my men?" she demanded.

Ah yes. That was how he'd never noticed.

"You broke my security jinxes," he replied, purposefully evasive.

"Standard jinxes tell you about the presence of magic, not the quantity."

"Perhaps mine was not a standard jinx." He shot her a pointed look, and her eyes narrowed further, frustratingly unreadable.

"Unregistered spells are - "

"Completely legal."

"Highly risky," she admonished.

"Oh, Granger, I didn't know you cared," he sneered, satisfied to see her cheeks turn an altogether too alluring shade of pink. He shook himself. "Tell me what you're doing here or get the hell out of my house."

She nodded, one curt, downward jerk of her head. "Very well. You may want to take a seat."

Her tone set off all of Draco's mental alarms. His posture turned rigid as his body held itself to its full and not unimpressive height. "I'll stand," he replied coolly.

She nodded again, her mien professional. "Over the past few weeks, Malfoy Manor has been experiencing a string of intrusions."

"Intrusions?" he interrupted quickly. "Of what nature?"

"Will you let me finish?" she asked impatiently. He rolled his eyes and waved her on. She glared and continued. "Two weeks ago, the southern perimeter wards were breached. Your parents went to investigate, but by the time they arrived, whoever it was had Disapparated. Four days later, there was another breach, closer to the Manor itself. Again, they found nothing. Lucius and Narcissa, instead of reporting these intrusions to the Ministry..." – he noted the tightness in her tone – "took it upon themselves to institute a property patrol. Three nights ago, another breach occurred. A house-elf was attacked. This time, they were able to confront the intruder. Spells were fired."

Draco's chest constricted. The Malfoys were not a popular family. That was part of the reason he had left in the first place. But for an attack to occur on their _own property_ meant something else entirely. Such a display of power and hubris could only be taken as a threat of the most lethal variety.

"My parents?"

"They're fine. But the elf..." She glanced at her shoes in remorse, and Draco squelched the impulse to put his hand to his forehead in relief. "Narcissa has been put under house arrest," she continued after a moment of silence, "and a Ministry guard has been deployed. Your father's sentence remains unchanged."

"How many men?"

"Six, rotating daily."

"It's not enough."

Hermione looked troubled. "I didn't think so either. I tried to persuade Bates – my department head – to assign more, but we're stretched thin at the moment."

"I have to go back."

"No." Her reply was forceful. Draco stopped mid-step to look at her. He did, hard, giving her his best and most threatening glare. "That's exactly what I'm here to prevent. The Ministry wants to take you into custody. We're not arresting you." She put her hands up as he stepped toward her, as if that could calm him. "We believe these invasions are a legitimate threat and don't want to take any chances. Protective custody provided by the Ministry is the best way to ensure your safety."

"The Malfoys make powerful enemies, Granger," he said in a deep, dangerous voice. "Whoever has the nads to threaten us has more than enough to consider taking on the _Ministry_."

"We're doing the best we can to –"

"Ensure the restriction of my mother's social life, not her safety. I need to be with them. A threat against one is a threat against all."

"Exactly!" Hermione said, as if he had made the point for her. "The Ministry doesn't know what the intrusions mean, but one of our theories involves getting to you. The best way to do this would be through your parents. Does that make sense?"

It did, but he would never admit that to her. "A crack theory is not justification enough to arrest me –"

"It's _protective custody_."

"Even more reason for me to go to them," he continued, ignoring her. "Strength in numbers."

"No. Don't you see? It's even more reason for you to stay away. I found you, Malfoy, but it took me three days of non-stop searching, and I'm exceptionally clever. If you go back, that buffer will be gone. They'll know exactly where to find you, and then we could have more than intrusions and half-hearted duels to deal with. You need to be kept out of the public eye until we have enough information to make an arrest."

"Until you have enough information? When the hell will that be?"

"I don't know."

"And just where would you be keeping me?"

The tension in her shoulders dissipated and relief flitted across her face. He couldn't fathom why.

"The Ministry has arranged a safe house in Wales. We should leave now. Pack a bag – only the essentials. We'll provide the rest."

He laughed sharply. "Pack? You're under the impression that I've agreed!"

She stopped fidgeting and stared at him. "I thought…"

"I'm not setting foot in Europe unless I'm en route to Wiltshire."

In a snap, the tension was back. "You're refusing?"

"Obviously. Now if that's all…" He gestured toward the door.

Her expression shifted. She looked as if she were about to tell him a very hard truth. "There is another option."

"Go on."

"I can't force you to take the Ministry's offer, but we're still beholden to protect you."

"I'm out of your jurisdiction. You're not _beholden_ to do anything."

She scowled. "It reflects poorly upon the Ministry to let one of its citizens get murdered, and the backlash would be even worse since… Well, since it's you. So, yes, we are."

He tried to ignore the implications of what being _him_ actually meant. "For your own interests."

"For our _mutual_ interests," she corrected. "You won't die as a result of this."

"Doesn't that depend on option two?"

She forced a smile. "Perhaps it does. Option two is a live-in, Ministry-approved guard."

A switch of understanding flicked on immediately. "You are that guard."

"Correct."

"Absolutely not."

"Then you'll pack for Wales?"

"No."

"Well those are your options. Like it or not, one of those will be happening and, though I can't extradite you without your permission, I _am_ authorized to take up temporary residence, your approval be damned."

"I propose a third option. _You_ go to bloody Wales, _I _stay right here. You contact me when you finally manage to catch the raging psychopath who seems to think attacking the family elves is an intelligent life decision."

"If you think the Ministry is daft enough to assume you would follow directions, then you're more insane than rumored. The supervision is to make sure you don't do anything stupid, like return to England or look for the intruders on your own."

"I am more than capable of handling myself alone, Granger," he deadpanned. Her eyes flicked up and down his body, and he thought her saw her eyebrow rise just the slightest bit. He momentarily regretted not making time for trousers, but made no move to cover himself. This was his house, after all, and he could wear whatever he pleased! If he wanted to be stark naked in the middle of the _afternoon_, that was his prerogative and none of her bloody business!

He was about to tell her so when her eyes drifted to the half-empty whiskey bottle near the chair and the nearly full glass on the table. Draco scowled, failing to ignore her self-satisfied expression. His need for trousers was forgotten one more. Apparently, Hermione had grown from a condescending, holier-than-thou student into a full-fledged, judgmental, sanctimonious bitch.

"I do not need you here, Granger. Moreover, I do not _want_ you here. Your job is to take care of my parents." He stalked over to the door and opened it, gesturing her out. The girl simply crossed her arms and stared at him pityingly, as if he'd seriously misunderstood something Flitwick had said in Charms.

"My job is to ensure your safety."

"And my sanity?"

She grimaced. "A secondary concern."

"Bloody fuck." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I am not above using force to get you out of here," he threatened.

She tutted and crossed her arms, patience clearly running low. "Oh, come off it. If how you smell is any indication of your current blood alcohol level, I doubt you could cast a charm to tie your own shoelaces."

The jab triggered his pride, which in turn raised his wand. Before it could even reach his navel, it flew out of his hand into her open palm and he was pinned against the wall. The rough stone scraped against the bare skin of his back, but that wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as being rendered powerless by a short witch with thick curly hair and wide, doe eyes.

She must have seen the horrified expression cross his face. She released him immediately and took two steps backward, staring at him as if he had just slapped her. "I'm sorry, that was… unprofessional. I should have given you a warning first. I'm not… I'm not going to hurt you," she stuttered in embarrassment.

He scowled and rubbed the back of his head. "They've trained you well."

"They told me not to take chances."

Draco heard the silent 'with you' attached to her statement and felt his pride twitch angrily again. "You're still not staying here."

There was that look again, that pitying, almost tender expression that did something strange to his chest. He knew quite well what she was thinking, knew that he could not allow her idea to come to fruition, and that – in the end – what he could or couldn't allow was moot. She would get her way and would be positively insufferable about it. Because he was not going back to England, not on her terms. Not on anyone's terms but his own, in fact. And she would not leave until she got _her_ way. He would not go down without a fight, however.

"I'm not going to Wales." It was his final decision.

"Me neither, then."

"Fine, if that's how it is, so be it. There's a motel in town," he suggested coolly. "It's close, but you'll want to take the truck. You'll look suspicious Apparating."

"Malfoy, don't make me say it again."

"Hopefully they'll still have a room open. It's tourist season, you know."

She sighed and flicked her wand. Several loud thuds and muted swishing noises emanated from the guest room. Draco looked past her to the partially opened door, spying the corner of a foreign trunk and an unnaturally full closet.

"Don't fuss about making up the second bedroom," she said. "I brought my own set of sheets."

At first, her preparedness surprised him, but then he remembered who she was.

"I'll give you money for tonight, but I expect you to go to Gringotts tomorrow to pay me back." It was a token final effort, but one he had to make. She hung her cloak upon the back of a kitchen chair, removed her heavy boots, and looked far too comfortable examining his cupboards, which, he remembered now, were embarrassingly bare, not unlike the rest of his life. She located a glass and filled it with tap water.

"You're sleeping on the couch," he quipped testily.

She leveled a tired, hurt expression at him over her water glass. The alcohol must have been affecting him more than he had originally thought because he felt immediately ashamed.

"Let's get some sleep." She set the glass on the counter. "We can talk more tomorrow."

"No. If you're going to just move into my life, then I deserve to know everything you do. You can't just tell me that my family is being threatened and expect me to sleep through the night."

"Malfoy, you're –"

"I swear to Circe, if you say one more word about my damned blood alcohol level…"

"It's late," she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "Or early, rather. I've already adjusted myself to the time change. One night is all I ask."

"And why should I let you have it? You're the intruder here, and I deserve explanations!"

"You do, and I've told you the facts. All I have left is conjecture, and there's too much of it to discuss tonight. I'll show myself to my room."

"You could teach stubbornness to a mule, Granger."

"Says the pot to the kettle," she muttered with a roll of her eyes. She brushed past him, ignoring his glare.

"This isn't going to work," he said to her retreating form. "We'll kill each other."

"That would be counterproductive," she retorted, "and reflect poorly on my yearly review. Goodnight, Malfoy."

Without further ado, she shut her door, leaving him in his softly lit dining room, alone, yet less lonely, and far more confused, worried, and furious than before she arrived. He shot back the whiskey, wincing at the overlarge gulp, and left the glass on the table. He ventured into his bedroom and crawled into bed.

Draco tried to ignore the fact that a foreign trunk sat discreetly in the corner of his guest bedroom, the faint smell of jasmine that seemed to have pervaded his house, and the homey, personal sounds coming from the loo. He got up from bed and cast a silencing charm on the small restroom, but it was no use: the privacy of his life had been invaded, shattered by a woman from his past with wide eyes, thick brown hair, and an indefatigable will.

His abandoned fantasy popped back into his brain, but the woman with the innocent eyes now had a face and a name. His upper lip curled in frustration. What he wouldn't give to have Hermione out of his life and back into his head.

A nameless, faceless desire was so much easier to deal with than a real woman.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**May 31**

Draco woke the next morning with the sense that something was seriously wrong. He did not try to place the feeling; his mind was in no state for that level of reasoning. He instead chose the process of elimination. If he listed what was normal, it would be easier to pinpoint the abnormal.

So, what was normal?

Well, his head felt like it had been trampled by a herd of angry centaurs. His tongue felt heavy and thick, like he had spent the night licking wool. His mouth tasted like a flobberworm had become stuck between his teeth and died. The sunlight that streamed in from his thin-curtained windows stung his eyes, intensifying the headache and his quickly-souring mood. The temperature was warm enough so that Draco could confidently put the time around noon. He also had an erection. Normal, normal, and normal again. Then what was that feeling? Why did…

And then he heard it. A shuffling in his kitchen. The tap running. A soft, feminine voice. Humming? Yes, certainly humming. Every aching part of him lurched into focus as the events of last night – it had felt like a dream… Had he really drunk so much? – rushed back to him. His security jinxes. The swearing gnome. Granger, Weasley (for fuck's sake!), and two Ministry goons at his door. Her wide, brown eyes and him against a wall in nothing but his underwear, completely at her mercy. Intrusions. A threat. A _serious _threat against his parents and, by extension, him. He smacked his forehead with his hand and immediately regretted it. Why had he not grabbed _trousers_?

He wouldn't make that mistake again. He grabbed the nearest pair and pulled them on, then tugged on a short-sleeved shirt. Wand in hand, he moved slowly and, he thought, silently. He opened the door separating his room and the kitchen, his wand arm extended and pointed at Granger's back. She was at the refrigerator, hunched over slightly to inspect its meager contents. She wore thin, grey sweatpants and a light green t-shirt. Her brown hair was tied into a snarled bun at the nape of her neck.

"It's bad form to cast a spell on someone whose back is turned," she said absently. "I thought you would've remembered that lesson from fourth year."

The hex Draco had been considering died on his tongue, as did any semblance of a witty retort. Hermione finally made her selection and straightened up, turning toward the counter. She held a carton of eggs. Draco didn't even know he'd _had_ eggs.

"Good morning. Or afternoon, rather," she said, still not looking at him. She opened the carton and inspected its contents closely. "Are these farm fresh?"

Draco shrugged then remembered she wasn't looking at him. "Don't know. Probably from a farm, probably not very fresh."

Hermione frowned and passed her wand over the carton. Two eggshells turned olive green. "Well, that's better than I expected," she sighed. "We'll do some proper grocery shopping later."

She pulled a bowl over to her and, with a flick of her wand, sent two white-shelled eggs flying. They collided with a sharp crack and parted perfectly down the center, plopping into the bowl with their yolks unbroken. "Lunch?" she offered.

The idea of being offered his own food struck Draco as funny, but now was not the time for laughter. Now was the time for action.

"I'm not hungry," he growled, "and I would appreciate it if –"

"Oh, lower your wand," she huffed, interrupting him. "And sit down. I'll make some tea and we can have a chat. You'll probably be more inclined to listen now that you're sober and clothed." She threw him a sideways glance that was strangely probing; Draco fought a blush. "Have a seat."

She gestured him to the table and, thrown thoroughly off kilter, he obeyed. He sat on the edge of the chair, his body tense. His eyes never left Hermione as she bustled about his kitchen.

It was indescribably strange to see her so close and so _domestic_. She moved around his kitchen as if she had been cooking in it for years. She opened the cabinet that hid the plates on the first try and it only took her two attempts to find the cutlery, which he still had trouble locating after a few drinks. She seemed to know the precise stovetop setting to not overcook the eggs and, within minutes, had them perfectly over-easy, sitting atop a piece of thickly sliced whole meal toast.

She set the plate on the table and took the kettle off the hob just as it started to scream. She brought the tea tray next, set it before him, took her seat, and tucked into her lunch. Draco watched her silently and, at last, seemed to make her the slightest bit uncomfortable. She set down her fork and knife to stare back at him.

It had been four years since Hogwarts. He had barely known her during school. Had known enough about her, of course, to hate her, but hate was not a very complex emotion. It was shallow and vain: two attributes that had come too easily to him back then. Their seventh year changed that, when he saw her writhe in throes of agony upon the Manor's drawing room floor. Bellatrix had mentally flayed her, using pain to strip away the control that defined her. Hermione's screams had been animal, almost inhuman, and when their eyes met as she thrashed, she did not know him.

He was sure it would be permanent, was certain that his mad aunt, who had shown Hermione no mercy, had stolen something irreplaceable from the wizarding world. But their eyes met again as Weasley Apparated her away. Though she was barely conscious, she was there, damaged, but present, and he could feel nothing but relief.

Draco had thought he had the measure of her until his trial three years ago. She not only corroborated Potter's story about his refusal to identify them in front of his father and his aunt, but added to it. She told the Wizengamot, correctly, that he had lied for them at great personal risk and that she was sure, if given the chance to do it over, he would not have acted differently.

As the last part of her statement had been conjecture, the Wizengamot struck it from the official record. But she hadn't said it for the Wizengamot. She had said it for _him_. Although it was unthinkable, incomprehensible, and damn near impossible, she had forgiven him.

Sometimes, it kept him awake at night. Sometimes, he wondered if he had ever really _known_ anyone.

"Why are you here?" Draco asked. His wand was still clenched in his left hand.

"I told you last night," she replied. "Malfoy Manor has suffered a string of intrusions that the Ministry thinks are a direct threat. I'm here to ensure your safety."

"Do my parents know it's you?"

"Of course."

"And they _agreed_?"

Hermione hesitated before pouring herself – and him – a cup of tea. "Well, yes. They didn't ask for me specifically, but I'm who they got."

"How convenient," Draco muttered.

Hermione shrugged and did not meet his eyes. "You could say that. I don't know if anyone but me could have located you faster. You're a difficult man to find."

"Apparently not difficult enough. How did you manage?"

She shrugged again. "Logic, mostly. I knew you were out of Great Britain – no one had seen you anywhere. I thought France might be a good place to look, as your family owns a summer home there, but I figured that would still be too close and too obvious. People may still recognize you and the whole point of your leaving was anonymity, right?" She did not wait for an answer. "So, I thought globally. Asia and Western Europe were out because your family has close connections there. You would stick out like a sore thumb anywhere tropical, which ruled out South America, Africa, and even Australia. The United States was an option, but it struck me as unrealistic. I thought you would want to go somewhere that reminded you of home, which made me think of Canada. Once I had a decent theory, I explained it to Bates, who then contacted the Canadian Ministry and obtained your wand registration and the address you left. I knew you probably wouldn't be at the address, but I checked anyway. A Muggle motel – very subtle."

She shot him a bemused grin, which he did not return. The grin faded and she continued. "I knew you would want to be near a wizarding city. There aren't that many close to Ottawa, but you could have travelled to Quebec or British Columbia just as easily. I'll admit: you stumped me. However, the urgency to find you was growing, so I appealed to Bates for a temporary trace to be put on your wand, and... well…" She gestured around her. "Here I am."

Draco stood up, livid. "You put the Trace on my wand?" He knew registering his wand at the Canadian Ministry would come back to bite him, but it would not do for him to be in the country illegally. Maybe next time he could find a loophole, if there was a next time. At this point, he'd rather risk deportation.

"No, not _the_ Trace, just _a_ trace, like the Taboo Voldemort put on his name. It's only temporary, I promise. I called Bates the night I found you and had it lifted. Stop looking so violated."

"I _have_ been violated, Granger! My privacy, my home –"

"To keep you safe! Merlin, Malfoy, someone is targeting either you or your parents! The British Ministry can't have one of its citizens threatened and possibly killed without even _trying_ to prevent it."

Draco scowled, though he supposed she was right.

"I think we should discuss how we're going to handle the situation from here."

"How many times do I have to say it, Granger? I do not need your protection. You will not stay here."

"And how many times do I have to say it, Malfoy?" Her voice changed from light and kindly to tightly professional and a bit fed up. "This is not some sort of cruel punishment, although I'm sure it will feel like it soon. Your family has been threatened. Your parents are concerned. I am here on Ministry orders, and I'll be damned if I'm going to fail. Either we go to Wales or you adjust yourself to the idea of me being here. Until the Ministry can catch whoever has been breaking your family's wards, you're stuck with me."

Draco scowled again but said nothing. Stuck with her… A prisoner in his own home. He could have fought her, could have led them both in that same Mobius-strip conversation ultimately leading them nowhere. He could have whined and pouted, maybe even gotten angry.

He could have done all this and more, had he not looked at her. _Actually_ looked, past his preconceptions and their shared past to the woman beneath. There was a fierceness about her eyes and a determination in the firmness of her lips that made him sit a little straighter. The way she held her head radiated confidence and self-assuredness, which made him confident in turn. She made him feel strange, like he… Like he what? Couldn't help but trust her? Maybe even respected her a little? He scoffed. This is what three years of near solitude could do to a man: make him so lonely that even the most annoying little bint could seem like appealing company.

But it was too late, and he hadn't gotten angry or whined or pouted. Hermione interpreted his silence – correctly, damn her – as acceptance, and she smiled again. She got up to clear her plate and was back in half an instant and a wave of her wand, which had set his sponge to cleaning the dishes.

"Now, regarding the terms of our cohabitation…"

Draco cut her off. "I will set the terms."

He didn't actually _have_ any yet, but her easy control made him feel powerless, like a rug had been whipped out from beneath him and he was caught in free-fall before the inevitable crash of his body and the planet. He hadn't felt that way since his sixth year and clearly remembered he did not like it one bit. And whose cottage was this, after all? Whose food had she eaten? Whose bed had she slept in? Well, okay, not his _own_ bed, but certainly a bed that he _owned_! It was time to take control.

She sat back in her chair and gestured for him to continue.

His eyes narrowed. "You're laughing at me."

"I'm not."

But she was. A small smile played across her lips, and her eyes sparkled with bemusement. Her voice was too light, not quite mocking, but not serious either.

He deserved to be taken seriously. He deserved to be listened to. More than anything, he deserved her respect.

The sting of damaged pride flooded his body, clouding his vision and his senses. He shot to his feet and pointed his wand at her.

It was more of a gesture than a threat, a way to emphasize what he had been going to say, but his words were cut short as his feet left the floor. Her spell knocked him backwards, sending him to the floor, and the hard landing nearly knocked the wind out of him. He gasped as Hermione advanced upon him, her wand leveled at his chest. Her voice was like ice, her eyes unforgiving.

"You shall not pull your wand on me _ever_ again," she seethed. "To do so will be considered an aggressive attack on a Magical Law Enforcement Officer, and I will take you into custody faster than you can say 'Snitch.' Show me this courtesy, and I will show you the same. But hex me once, Malfoy, just _once_, and, so help me Morgana, you'll find yourself in a Welsh prison cell instead of a safe house."

He looked up at her, his own murderous look mirrored in her expressive brown eyes. "Merlin, I hate you," he hissed. He climbed to his feet. She did not offer him a hand.

"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear, but let's put our wands away and talk like civilized people, shall we? We need to straighten out a few kinks if this is going to go smoothly."

"In what universe could this ever go smoothly?"

"The one in which you stop acting like a prat and make an effort."

"So the same one in which you're not an annoying, know-it-all, swotty little Mu…"

Another silent whoosh, but this time it was not a spell that hit him. It was her palm. His cheek stung where the blow had landed, and Draco felt not the white-hot, all-consuming anger he had expected, but a sudden release, like something within him had snapped. Getting angry no longer seemed worth the trouble.

"Do not say that word," she whispered hoarsely.

"Muggle-born," he finished evenly. He surveyed her with unnerving calm, noting her shining eyes and quivering shoulders. His brow furrowed as she lifted her chin and straightened her back. Pride – a vice with which he was all too familiar. He would not be getting an apology from her any time soon.

He headed toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked him. Her voice sounded thick and a little hoarse. For some reason, Draco did not want to see the expression that complemented the tone.

"Out."

"But your safety, it could –"

Draco did not hear what his safety could be, as he had already slammed the door. He walked, turned right past a row of hedges, and broke into a light jog until he reached the edge of a thin patch of woods. Several paths ran through the trees and Draco chose his favorite, a winding trail about a foot wide. He walked slowly and kept his head down, staring at the path to make sure he didn't twist his ankle on an upraised root. He took a breath of warm, summer air and held it in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling in a rush.

He hadn't handled that well. Not well at all. Granger was the first familiar face he had seen in three years and had been nothing but kind to him ever since she arrived. Pushy, but kind. She hadtreated him politely, offered to cook him lunch, even smiled at him.

And how had he treated her? Like she was still the bane of his existence. Like they were still at school and he had to prove that he was superior, even though no one but him had ever cared. Like the assignment to "protect" him was her choice and not an order. Like she was going to ruin his life.

Like she _could_ ruin his life. He'd already done a fair job of it, hadn't he? Throwing in with Voldemort when he was barely old enough to understand what that meant. Clinging to antiquated notions of blood purity that almost got him and his family killed and had successfully killed one of his closest friends. Running away from the life the Golden Trio had returned to him because the process of rebuilding was too daunting to consider.

Draco liked to think he had changed since school, but his confrontation with Hermione weakened that argument until it was no stronger than parchment. She was an adult, a confident and competent woman, and he was still a boy whinging until he got his way. His cheek prickled unpleasantly and Draco groaned, feeling ashamed.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperate to sort out his thoughts. Granger and Weasley… Fuck. No, forget Weasley. The ginger was back in London right now, probably pouting to Potter and concocting some half-baked plan to get Draco arrested for kidnapping. Until that happened, Weasley wasn't his problem.

His problem was Hermione Granger, who had arrived on his doorstep late last night on orders to safeguard him against some psychotic threat. She had treated him with civility, except for two hexes and a slap, all of which had happened only after he had made an arse of himself.

There was something else he knew, too, but was even less thrilled to admit: he was glad to see her.

Perhaps glad was not the best word, but he couldn't think of another that fit as nicely. Living in isolation was much lonelier than Draco had imagined. Occasionally, he missed the whimsy of Diagon Alley and the simplicity of Hogsmeade. He missed his parents, the Manor, and even the ruddy peacocks that woke him up far too early in the morning. He missed his own kind and having one arrive unexpectedly on his doorstep was a nice change of pace, even if it was Granger.

Yet he could not lose sight of what was important. Someone was trying to get to him and/or his parents. His family had plenty of enemies – some of them even _were_ family – but most were in Azkaban with no hope of release. Whoever was threatening him had to be considered carefully, especially if he or she had avoided detection for this long.

He looked up and knew by the shade of the trees that he was nearly back where he had started. It was a good thing, too, because he was properly hungry now and a little more willing to listen. He knew what he had to do and, even though it required him to swallow his considerable pride, he would do it. He just hoped he hadn't mucked things up with Granger too thoroughly. He smiled wryly: with his luck, she was probably halfway to Britain.

Hermione was not halfway to Britain. She was not even a quarter of the way. In fact, she had not moved from where she had eaten lunch. Draco hesitated, observing her through the window. She held a mug in both her hands and stared blankly at its contents. She looked thoughtful, troubled. He supposed it was his fault. It was always his fault. The rueful thought made his jaw clench. He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. It was time to change that.

He opened the door and the spell over Hermione broke. She looked up at him, her fingers tightening around the mug. Draco thought he recognized relief wash over her face.

"Listen, Malfoy, I'm…"

"Shut it, Granger," he said sharply, holding up a hand to silence her. He was not going to let her beat him at apologizing, too. "This morning was difficult for me. I've been alone going on three years, and I'm not accustomed to receiving witches on my doorstep in the middle of the night. The news you brought did not help. I want… I would like to apologize for my behavior." She looked surprised, insultingly so, but he stamped out the bud of annoyance it caused. "You are here as a professional. I, in turn, will do my best to act accordingly."

"Thank you, Draco," she said softly.

His heart skipped at the sound of his first name; it was his turn to be surprised.

"I acted rashly this morning. And last night. I shouldn't have assumed your hospitality or your acceptance. I did both. I owe you an apology as well."

Their eyes met and a tendril of understanding passed between them. Draco breathed out slowly and took a seat at the table.

"So… may I stay here?"

Draco laughed and shook his head. "A little late for that, I think."

"Wales is still an option."

"No, it isn't."

She dared a smile. "I had to give you the chance to change your mind. You really would be much safer there."

He rolled his eyes. "Get it out of your head, Granger. Wales isn't going to happen."

"No, heaven forbid you make things easy on us."

He chuckled at her teasing and tried not to consider how much he enjoyed it. "Regarding these terms…"

"Ah, yes." Hermione flicked her wand and several rolls of parchment appeared on the table. She passed him the first stack, which was eleven inches long. Neat, tiny writing covered both the front and back.

"My alibi," she stated, somewhat proudly. "You should read through it, obviously, but I haven't changed much. My name is Jean Grainer and we're school mates. I've come to visit you on holiday. Unmarried, government job, enjoys reading and cooking. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, except for a few key points."

"A _few_ key points? Seems rather large, what you're leaving out."

Hermione shifted in her chair. "It doesn't need to be too thorough if it's Muggles we're fooling, does it? I'm not saying they aren't bright, but they don't have access to the kind of documentation they would require to prove I'm not who I say I am. The rest is just details. I suggest you memorize them today in case we encounter your neighbors."

Draco glanced through her alibi. All _twenty-two_ inches of it. Memorize it today? Hell, he had not even studied Arithmancy until the night before. He forced a smile and set the scroll aside. He would make a show of reading it, fine, but he would let her do the talking if – Circe forbid – they met his neighbors. He laced his fingers together and looked up at her, trying to look innocent.

"Also, I think we should call each other by our first names."

Draco looked askance at her. "Do you?"

"We're supposed to be old friends, _Draco_," she emphasized, not unkindly. "We've known each other for over ten years. We're both adults. I think a first-name basis would really help us foster a cohesive working relationship. I've read several studies which –"

"Very well, very well," Draco interrupted. "Spare me the lecture."

She looked put out, like the lecture was her favorite part of this whole ordeal.

"With your permission," she continued, "I would like to place a few wards on the house."

"It's already warded." He glanced at his gnome, whose shifty eyes met Draco's for just a moment before flitting away. "I reset them every day."

"A few more couldn't hurt. And these are Ministry-approved – the strongest we know."

"What will they do?"

"Well, the Ministry's position on home protection is prevention. I would like to cast two: one alarm and one blockade."

"You can't mean to tell me that the strongest wards you can use don't even inflict _pain_?"

"An innocent wizard could wander into the field. Offensive wards are ethically questionable."

"Murder isn't?"

"We don't know if the goal is murder. The truth is that this needs to get done regardless of your answer."

"Then what's the point of even asking?"

"Full disclosure."

"Bloody bureaucrats."

"The world we live in," she said with a sigh. She handed him a piece of parchment and a travel-sized, pre-inked quill. "Read this through, then initial here, here, and here. Sign and date the bottom." She cast while he read, a process that took no more than five minutes.

"All right, the boundaries are simple: the house, obviously, and the front and back gardens, extending to and encompassing the deck."

"Why not just ward the beach while you're at it?"

"That's public land and would require a different permit. I know, I know," she said testily as he gave her an annoyed look. "Bureaucrats. But if any magical being crosses those wards, we'll know. You should recast your wards, too, just to be thorough."

He did as she said and set his wand back down. "That had better be all."

She looked a little hesitant as she clutched a small roll of parchment rather close to her chest. "I didn't know how long you'd be out, so I took the liberty of drawing up a tentative code of conduct for us both."

Draco frowned. Hermione had good reason to look nervous. If there was one thing he did not like, it was being humiliated. Another was being expected to follow orders. She was perilously close to doing both within a few hours of each other. He was about to say as much when she went on, suddenly shoving the roll onto his folded hands.

"I have the section headings – Magic, Household, and Recreation – and subheadings explaining the scope of each," she explained as he took the scrolls. "The rules are under those, with a brief explanations, if necessary, and exceptions to those rules, also explained. All of this is open to amendment, which I suggest we do now."

Draco goggled at the list. Was this what Potter and Weasley had to put up with for six years? He thought he must have gone mad as a small wave of pity rolled over him. Nonetheless, he agreed and read over the first heading.

To his great surprise, this heading was the shortest one, only spanning a quarter of the page. Even more surprising were the terms laid out therein.

"Am I reading this correctly, Granger?" he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. "_No_ magic?"

"Your comprehensive abilities seem to have withstood your stint of isolation, Malfoy," she said far too brightly. "Rest assured: you read correctly."

"And why, pray, am I to be stripped of the only thing that still gives me joy?"

She looked taken aback by his candor. "Not stripped of it, necessarily, just temporarily prohibited from using it. I'm not going to, either. It's not a punishment," she added quickly, no doubt in response to the fierce glare he sent her. "It's a precaution. Bates knows that whoever wants you –"

"_If_ they want me."

"– will eventually come searching for you if getting to your parents doesn't work. He thinks it best that you maintain a low profile so as not to draw attention to yourself. I agree with him."

"Don't you think that the fact that my cottage is warded is a dead giveaway of wizarding presence?"

"It would be, but I've made your wards Undetectable. We've eliminated that risk."

Draco was taken aback for a moment. He had not considered making his wards Undetectable. Hadn't actually considered it to be possible, to be honest. Time for attack number two.

"What if this stranger comes to call and I'm unarmed? Should I just let him kill me? Perhaps I should paint a large target on my chest now and have done with it?"

Her expression soured, as if maybe it would not be a bad idea. "Perhaps your powers of perception are altered. Obviously you missed exception number one."

Draco glanced back down at the paper and read.

**One: Wands are to be carried on your person and concealed at all times when venturing beyond the wards. No exceptions.**

He glowered at her. "Say we're indoors and my wards break. What –"

"Number two, Malfoy!" she scolded in exasperation.

**Two: Wands are to be easily accessible when indoors. Neither party is to hide, steal, or otherwise handle a wand which is not his or her own, unless it is to aid the other party in obtaining his or her own wand. Wand location to be decided upon as a unit.**

"Not on my person but nearby?"

Hermione nodded. "Shouldn't be too hard to manage, as this place is rather tiny. I think the table should do nicely."

"We're just going to set them there? But what will the neighbors think?" he mocked.

"Oh, you are such a prat." With a flick of her wand, his cupboard opened and a glass came hurtling at them. She caught it expertly and set it on the table. With a complicated hand motion, the glass shimmered and grew, twisting upward into an elegant vase. With another wave, she conjured a bouquet of everlasting flowers and lowered them into the vase. She looked around her and spotted a collection of weathered glass lying on a shelf near his fireplace.

"May I?"

Draco gestured helplessly; by now, he knew she would do what she wanted regardless of whether or not she had permission. Several pieces flew toward them and landed in the vase. Another complicated wave melded the motley pieces together, then apart, forming separate green-tinted glass balls that acted as a stabilizer for the flowers.

"Hawthorn, correct?"

He looked at her, confused.

"Your wand," she prompted. "It's hawthorn?"

"Yes," he said, and she nodded, looking infuriatingly pleased with herself. A few more waves produced elegant looking pieces of wood that implanted themselves in the bed of glass beads.

"This should do quite nicely then!" She stuck her wand tip-side down into the vase and leaned back to survey the effect. Draco had to admit that it looked quite natural. He could tell the difference between her wand and the branch of ornamental vine, but only just. It would definitely fool a Muggle. He could feel her eyes on him, gauging him for a reaction. He kept his face impassive and bit back a smirk when he saw her pleased expression falter. It was a clever idea and a nice bit of magic, but there was no reason she needed to know it.

"I take it you didn't bother reading exception three?" she deadpanned, making the question sound more like a statement.

Of course he hadn't.

**Three: Neither party is to cast a spell – friendly or unfriendly – upon the other party unless expressly permitted to do so. In the case of outside attack, parties are permitted to cast protective and defensive enchantments as long as neither proves to be detrimental to the cast-upon party. **

"Merlin, you really do work for the Ministry, Granger," Draco mumbled. "Party this, permitted that… I'm surprised I haven't stumbled across a _wherein_ yet."

Her cheeks flushed. "There's one under heading two," she admitted.

Draco rolled his eyes and continued reading. He stopped after each section to ask her about each exception, all of which he had read but about which he feigned ignorance. She grew more frustrated with each question, referring him sharply to which clause it was under and sometimes just reciting the sentence verbatim for him. It was immeasurably fun to aggravate her and resulted in their discussion lasting over two hours.

The rest of the contract was relatively simple. Under the "Household" heading were laid out rules concerning sleeping arrangements (separate), kitchen responsibilities (separate except for dinnertime, when they would trade off cooking meals), common area use (keep things separated), and facilities (dear Merlin, _separate_). To say Draco noticed a theme would have been redundant.

The "Recreation" heading – and this was one that Draco read fully, it being only a paragraph long – was infuriating.

"The Ministry may be able to place my parents under house arrest, Granger," he snarled, "but they're well out of their rights to try it on me."

"It's not house arrest. It's a preventative measure. It's dangerous to move beyond the wards."

"For whom?"

She gave him a withering look. "The Ministry is not just trying to cover its arse with this, Draco."

"At least you admit it."

"Look, whatever you may think, they have your best interests in mind. You're _valuable_. You're _important_."

"Worth more alive than dead for once."

She glared at him. "You're being melodramatic. It'll just be for a few weeks, then you'll have all your freedoms back again."

"Bollocks. A few weeks? Do you have any leads on a suspect?"

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information."

"Government-speak for _no_."

She frowned and was about to argue, but he cut her off before she could utter a syllable.

"I cannot be confined to my own thrice-damned house with _you_ for Merlin knows how long and expect to come out of it sane. And how are we expected to shop?"

"The Ministry –"

"And won't it look a little suspicious, me staying indoors? The neighbors" – who rarely visited, but that was another piece of information she didn't need – "will start to worry. Then if they see you – a guest! – who is supposedly" – he glanced down at her alibi, carelessly flipping it over – "_on holiday_… A holiday _indoors_ when there's a beach and a tourist town nearby? If that doesn't raise eyebrows…"

He leveled a "you-know-I'm-right" expression at her and she sat back, looking torn.

"It's risky. Every time you venture out is an opening. You could be spotted and attacked."

"In the middle of the day? I'd say that's unlikely."

She pursed her lips. "But not impossible."

"We'll be armed. Provision one, remember?"

"That's a worst-case scenario."

"You and I trapped together is a worst-case scenario."

Her frown deepened; he was almost there.

"Your alibi needs protecting just as much as I allegedly do, and by the end of the first week, we'll both need out of this place if we want to keep this contract sealed. Daytime trips only and never for more than two hours. We'll even take my gremlin, so we'll know if the wards are broken."

Hermione raised an eyebrow but did not inquire further about his gremlin. She was silent for a while, then sighed. "Very well. Grocery shopping once per week, less if we can manage it. You can take me into town _once_ for souvenirs."

"Twice," he amended. "Social decorum dictates dinner at the local pub." Moreover, he enjoyed their hamburgers.

"Once," she shot right back. "We'll combine it with the souvenirs."

"Can't. Two-hour time limit."

She swore quietly. "Fine. Twice, but no more. I don't care how spare you go. And the beach, hmm… every other day, perhaps?"

Draco balked. "Absolutely not. We don't have to do every bloody thing together."

She quirked an eyebrow and grinned lopsidedly. "Shy, Malfoy? I never would have guessed."

"You guessed wrong," he said acidly. He glared, but felt a tinge of color creep into his cheeks. He was neither shy nor ashamed of how he looked in his swim trunks. He looked damn good in them, actually. No, Draco's was a different problem, and it was two-fold.

The first issue was that he enjoyed swimming quite a bit. The way his body cut through the water made him feel powerful. The feeling of it flowing through his hair and across his back made him feel exquisitely sexual. The expanse of the Great Lake made him feel infinite and free. It was a private time for him, an intimate time. He did not want to feel like that around her, and that reason was the second part of his problem. Despite all of Hermione's short-comings, which were many and most likely immutable, she had one attribute that had the potential to override every flaw he could think of.

She was female.

Normally, this would not have been an issue. Draco was used to females, had interacted with them all the time at Hogwarts, and even known one in a more carnal nature. But he had not had sex in going on three years, which was as far away from normal as Draco cared to venture. So, despite that fact that she was Hermione "Infuriating" Granger, that she held no esteem for him and probably never would, and that he was about as interested in her personality as he was in cuddling up to a Blast-Ended Skrewt, she had power over him. Hadn't she already inserted herself into his fantasy? Unbidden, of course, and much to his displeasure, but present just the same.

And she was fit. Any idiot could see that. Her hair was still a riotous mess, but her eyes were a lovely shade of brown. Her skin looked soft and just begged to be sun-kissed. He imagined freckles dotting her nose and cheeks and barely stopped himself from staring. Her lips were full, her breasts were perky, her hips were absolutely perfect, and that rear… Draco remembered her bending over to get the eggs out of the refrigerator and felt an unwelcome stirring in his groin.

He moaned softly and put his head in his hands. He was ill. He was _mental_. _Seriously_ mental if he could think of Hermione Granger with adjectives other than "swot," "know-it-all," and their synonyms. Merlin help him.

"Um, Draco?" she asked tentatively. He drew a deep breath and sighed, raising his eyes but not meeting hers. "You said yourself that not going to the beach would be suspicious. However much I wish this didn't make complete sense to me…" She sighed and rubbed her own forehead. "We're just going to have to do it, bathing suits and all."

She made it sound like a vaccination. He scowled and folded his arms over his chest, disliking that she was right and not looking forward to making a fool out of himself.

"I think that about sums it up." She scribbled the final provisions onto the parchment and looked up at him expectantly. "Unless there was anything you wanted to add."

Oh, the things he wanted to add. Granger must remain fully clothed at all times, preferably in lurid, shapeless dresses. Granger must stay a minimum of three yards away from him. Granger must not look at him and smile.

"No," is what he replied instead.

She nodded. "Good. I'll put a light stinging jinx on the agreement. Incentive for both of us to follow the rules."

"Fine."

She pointed her wand at the contract. It glowed orange for a moment, then returned to normal.

"Now we just need to sign it. Once we put quill to parchment, no more magic and no more amendments."

She picked up her quill and poised it over the paper.

"Wait."

Hermione stopped and looked up at him from beneath dark lashes.

He cleared his throat. "When does this contract break?"

"Oh." She drew the quill away and leaned back in the chair. "When do you think it should break?"

The question caught Draco off guard. He thought about it for a long moment.

"In the event of an attack," he said finally, "assuming we both make it out alive. Then we'll re-work and re-sign the agreement. Or if we leave the country. I can't see this cohabitation agreement making much sense back home. Obviously, if the threat is neutralized and your assignment ends."

"Fair points." She jotted down his suggestions. "Anything else?"

Draco shook his head.

"All right then."

She signed the agreement and passed it and the quill over to him. He considered each for a moment.

Seven years ago, he had imagined his life going very differently, with a well-matched marriage and the opportunity to forge his legacy in the Malfoy family. Four years ago, he had imagined a life away from the public eye and living a long, lonely existence separate from the people who knew him best. Yesterday, Hermione Granger arrived on his doorstop, and today he was agreeing to live with her.

As far as Draco was concerned, Kneazles had flown, the Manor had been overrun by trolls, and Hagrid had received a position on the Wizengamot. The impossible had happened, and he could not even begin to fathom what would happen tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**June 1**

Draco fully expected to pass the day in awkward and tense silence, but the opposite greeted him when he made his way into the kitchen that morning. Hermione was awake and had either showered or swum. Her hair hung around her face, her usually untameable curls stretched into damp waves that hung past her shoulders. He was not used to seeing her so discomposed and averted his gaze, feeling like he had accidentally seen something private.

"Good morning, Draco," she said brightly. "I hope you didn't have anything planned for the day. We need to shop."

'We need to shop' are four words no bloke ever wants to hear, especially upon waking and _especially _if that bloke is not a morning person.

Draco was not a morning person.

He tamped his snarl down into a yawn-and-glare combination. "Breakfast," he grunted. "A shower. Then we can do all the bloody shopping you want."

She nodded, apparently satisfied with his conditions, and headed outside to take her breakfast – toast and jam – on the deck, which overlooked the lake. Draco unleashed his snarl. _H__e _took breakfast on the deck. _Alone_. Was he constantly going to have to rearrange his life to accommodate her? Or maybe he would just have to wake up earlier. He could always join her, but that would mean he willingly chose to be near her when there were other options available.

With a frown, he poured himself a glass of orange juice – a poor substitute for pumpkin, in his opinion – and toasted two pieces of bread. He reached for the jam and then remembered that she had used it, too. He cursed. He had been close to scraping the bottom of the jam jar for a week now, but had put off grocery shopping for no better reason than laziness. And now he would have to eat dry toast.

"I hate dry toast," he muttered to himself, opening the jar to rinse it out so that it could be recycled. "And I hate –" The next word died on his lips as he looked into the jar.

It wasn't empty. A portion of the sweet, strawberry preserve sat at the bottom, waiting for him. It looked like just enough to cover two pieces of toast. Draco knew without a doubt that Hermione had considered him.

Damn her. Even when he was determined to hate her, just for a morning, she undermined him. He spread the jam on his toast and sat at the kitchen table, glaring out at her and the lake, wondering why his breakfast tasted so bitter.

He took his time in the shower. By the time he changed into fresh clothes, Hermione had come in from her breakfast, cleaned her dishes, and constructed a grocery list. She had also changed into a t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts that showed an unhealthy amount of thigh. Her hair was drawn back into a thick ponytail.

"I don't know what you normally eat," she said before Draco could look from her legs to the list in her hands, "so I just put down the basics. Fruit, vegetables, milk... That sort of thing. Also, for my nights, I want to make spaghetti and meatballs – my mum's recipe – and the other night I was thinking Greek, maybe a spinach and cheese pie, or lamb if they have it. I've never made kebabs before, but how hard could they be? We'll have leftovers for lunch, and when we're sick of those, I thought cold cuts and cheese for sandwiches." She paused and looked at him expectantly. Draco knew what she wanted, but had no intention of giving it to her that easily. "What were you thinking?" she finally prompted.

"Barbecue," he said simply.

Upon acquiring his cottage three years ago, Draco discovered an old charcoal grill in his shed. At the time, he'd had no idea what the thing was, but a few complex spells revealed its function to him piecemeal. The first time he used it, for example, he didn't have charcoal to sustain the fire. He'd used his wand instead, but the flame was too hot and he spent ten minutes shaving off the charred outer layer before suffering through the chewy, overcooked steak beneath. The second time, he used charcoal, but couldn't get it lit, and his third attempt – with lighter fluid this time – nearly cost him his eyebrows. Once he acquired all the proper tools, however, and learned by trial and error about heat distribution, he became somewhat of a proficient. A grill master, some might say.

He left his answer at that and snatched the list. He slipped on a pair of sandals – Flip-flips? Flop-flips? Flimsy fucking footwear? Muggle footwear he picked up at one of the local shops – grabbed his car keys off the hook, and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Hermione said. "Your wand. Hold on a moment."

He paused as she disappeared into her room and came out with a hand-tooled leather holster.

"This is for you, compliments of the Ministry," she said, setting it on the table.

"Where's yours?"

She held up her right arm and smiled. Draco glanced to the vase and noticed that only one decorative vine stalk remained. He looked at her arm again.

"It's bare," he stated.

Her smile grew wider and annoyance spread through him like slow-moving poison. "Put it on," she cajoled. "See what happens."

He glared, but did as she said. The holster was smooth and warm against his skin, and the fit adjusted automatically. The holster was snug against his arm, but not uncomfortable. It was also plainly visible. Draco looked a question at her.

"Your wand," she prompted. "Handle-end first." He grabbed it from the vase and loaded the holster. His wand locked into place with a quiet click and, to his great surprise, the dark leather disappeared. He ran his fingers along the holster. The leather was markedly warmer and emitted a very subtle vibration. The view of his left forearm and his Dark Mark was unobstructed. He frowned, as he always did when he saw his Mark. At least it didn't have any meaning in the Muggle world. To them, it was just a tattoo, not a permanent reminder of attempted genocide.

"Incredible, isn't it?" Hermione asked, her voice alight with excitement. "They're new. Research and Development finished the prototypes just last year. This is one of their first field trials. Hopefully they'll hold up as well as they did in testing. To unload it, all you have to do is flick your wrist." She demonstrated the sharp, quick motion – a combination of a spin and a snap. Her wand appeared in her hand and the holster became visible again. "Give it a few tries. It takes some getting used to."

The first few flicks elicited no response, but on his fourth try, his wand shot out of the holster. He was so surprised that he failed to close his hand in time. The hawthorn shaft clattered to the floor, emitting a few red sparks in response to the poor treatment. He reloaded and tried again, this time catching the wand. It landed in just the right place in his palm and didn't require any adjustment before use. It was quite a brilliant invention.

Hermione nodded, satisfied. "I think you're ready." As she snatched her purse from her bedroom, she was ready too, and followed Draco to his car.

The car was an old, two-seater truck, faded red and eaten through with rust at the front and back bumpers, door bottoms, and wheel hubs. Hermione missed a step when she saw it.

"It came with the place," he said evenly, if a bit coldly.

The truck wasn't nearly as wonderful as a broom, but it got him from Point A to Point B reliably enough and was easy to maintain. He'd even grown a little fond of the metal heap. He unlocked the driver's side door with his key and turned to watch Hermione. Her mouth dropped into a perfect "O" as she reached for the door handle. Draco savored a secret smile: there _wasn't_ a door handle on the passenger side. Her brow furrowed. She looked at him through the dirty window for assistance. He reached over and rolled it down using the manual crank.

"You'll have to sit in the boot, I'm afraid."

He gestured with a jerk of his head toward the rear of the truck and watched her expression with amusement. The bed of the truck was in a state of nearly unusable disrepair. The metal sheet that served as the base was close to rusting through in some places and the half-door that stopped the contents of the bed from sliding onto the road was completely missing. Draco had replaced it with a cedar board. It held fine when groceries slid into it, but anything bigger than a few bags, like a young witch, for instance... Well, he wasn't going to make any promises. He nearly laughed aloud when Hermione realized this.

She frowned and glared at him, as if he had purposely ruined his automobile. "I'm not riding back there. I'll end up on the road."

"Climb through the window, then?"

She turned her critical eyes to the truck, took a few steps back, and shook her head. "Not going to work. My legs are hardly long enough to step _into_ this thing with any sense of decency."

"Oh, what a pity," Draco teased in a voice that was not as unkind as it once would have been. "Looks like you'll have to stay behind."

"Unlikely." She stared at the truck a moment longer. The fingers of her right hand twitched, and Draco was momentarily worried she would blast the door right off its rusty hinges. She seemed to think better of it and sighed. "There's nothing else for it. Budge over, Draco. I'll climb in on your side."

Draco sighed, too. He had known it would come to this, but if there was even a small chance to remove himself from her distracting presence, he would take it. He slid out of the driver's seat and stood aside as she clambered in. Draco watched intently as Hermione lifted her leg higher than usual to make the first step. Her legs might not have been long, but they were certainly beautiful, smooth and well shaped with the perfect ratio of muscle to fat. A little pale, perhaps, but who was he to judge?

She hefted herself upward, bringing her rear end close to eye-level. Draco felt a sudden swooping sensation in his stomach. The feeling raced its way to his brain and, before he could control himself, brought to mind an image of her getting into his truck while wearing a snug, short, and very un-Granger-y skirt. Everything tightened and he felt a moment of absolute panic.

"Coming?" Her voice tore him from his ever-worsening daydream and he entered the cab without looking at her. He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it violently. The engine whined and sputtered in protest. Hermione looked askance at him. Gathering his patience, Draco tried again. On the third try, the engine turned over with a loud grumble. With a jolt, he forced the monstrous truck into gear and slowly rumbled out of his gravel drive.

He handled the sharp turns of the unpaved path that led to the highway carefully. He had learned early on that the truck was dependable, but its high axle, maladjusted suspension, and steel body made it top-heavy. If he took a corner too fast, it was prone to tip right over. It had happened to him only once, but once was enough. He had righted the truck with the help of his wand – luckily for him it had been nighttime – and had proceeded around the bends with caution ever since.

"Where did you learn to drive?" Hermione asked once they reached the relative safety of the mostly straight highway.

"Self-taught," he said, not taking his eyes from the road. "Saw the license of a bloke at the pub. Bit of an ordeal to keep my wand hidden, but I managed to make a copy and then seal my information onto it." She huffed and was about to launch into a tirade about the illegality of the act, he was sure, but he cut her off. "I wanted to stay unnoticed, Granger, and taking driving lessons would not have helped with that. Besides, I practiced at night. No one was injured and I get along well enough now." He doubted he would ever be truly comfortable behind the wheel, but it was as much as he needed.

They passed the fifteen-minute drive to town in silence. Hermione stared out of the window, occasionally fiddling with her green canvas purse or reading over the incomplete grocery list in her hands. Draco saw her fidgeting out of the corner of his eye and wondered if she had always been so restless. It would make sense. She was one of the most efficient people in Hogwarts and, having been around layabouts like Potter and Weasley for years, was probably used to pulling more than her share. He smiled wryly: holidays must be quite a trial for people who can't relax properly.

Of course, this wasn't a real holiday. Hermione was on a mission because someone was trying to get to him or his family. That was what was making her twitchy. He couldn't forget it.

On the outskirts of the city proper was the grocery store. Draco maneuvered into a parking spot, forced the old transmission into 'park,' and sidled out of the seat. He held the door as Hermione followed him, keeping his eyes away from her legs. She led the way into the store and grabbed a cart, handing the list to him. Then she paused, assessing the store's layout and planning her strategy.

"All right, produce first, it seems, then we'll work aisle by aisle. Meat is in the back, I'm guessing?"

Draco nodded.

"Excellent. Don't forget to consult the list. We won't be driving all the way back just for tomato paste."

He followed her dutifully and read off the first few items. "Spinach, onions, apples, carrots, and grapes."

"All right, you grab the carrots and the grapes – I prefer red, but I'll eat green if you like those better – and I'll get the spinach and onions and start looking at the apples." She broke off from him, heading for the spinach, as he watched her, dumbfounded. She had been always been bossy, but he wasn't accustomed to being on the receiving end. It was something he would need to change about her, but now did not seem the time: her no-nonsense tone did not allow questions, and Draco was not fond of public rows.

He ambled around the empty produce section, gathering a bag of red grapes, baby carrots, and four ears of yellow corn as he went. He met her back at the trolley and set his items next to the spinach. Hermione was looking at the apples and, it seemed, interrogating each one. She would pick one up, turn it over twice, shake her head, and put it back. This happened five times before one fruit made it into the bag.

"Granger –"

"Jean," she corrected mildly. He ignored her.

"What the devil are you doing?"

"Picking out apples," she said, never taking her eyes away from her task. She smiled as she found another, which she placed gently beside the first.

"Why does it take you three minutes to find one? Just pick five and be done with it. They're all the same."

She paused and looked at him aghast. "What if they're bruised?"

"Just eat around that bit, or through it. It won't kill you."

Hermione pulled a face and went back to her inspections. "There's nothing worse than biting into a soft apple when it's supposed to be crisp. If you want to eat the bruised bits, that's your choice, but I will not start the habit of eating mishandled fruit. What's next: overripe bananas?" She shook her head and laughed. "That's a slippery slope."

He gaped at her. "Slippery slope? It's fruit!"

"But it's my fruit, Draco." She smiled as she located the last, perfect apple and tied the bag.

To his dismay, it was not only fruit quality that concerned Hermione. It was _everything_. She comparison shopped, looking at prices to see what saved her the most coin. She read labels, peering at the ingredients and holding tins of tomatoes side by side to compare nutritional information. It took ages to move down one aisle and, by aisle three, Draco was beside himself with impatience. When he shopped, he grabbed the first item off the shelf that suited his purpose. He never read labels, couldn't care less about nutrition, and couldn't stand to quibble over a toonie or two when it came to checkout. He was in and out in thirty minutes or less every time.

It had to have been over an hour now, he was sure. Draco leaned heavily on the cart, staring at her while she compared two kinds of pasta.

"Granger. Granger. Granger. Granger."

She said nothing, but shot him a glare that meant, 'Call me Granger one more time and, stinging hex be damned, you'll lose a limb,' and went back to her pasta.

"_Jean_," he said, drawing out the vowels. "I'm never taking you to the grocer's again. We've been in here an hour now and the cart isn't even half full."

"It's been fifteen minutes and you should be grateful I didn't find your circular. Then I'd be fussing over coupons as well." She set a box of whole-wheat spaghetti into the cart and moved along.

The idea made Draco queasy. "I just wasn't expecting to waste half my day indoors," he muttered sourly. A mother and child passed them by, the child trailing calmly behind his mother.

"Will you stop whinging if I give you a sweet, Draco?" Hermione pondered, throwing him a pointed look. "It's worked well on that toddler." He glared and brushed past her with the cart. He could _feel_ her smirk.

They didn't need anything down aisle four, but they walked down it anyway as it put them out at the butchery section. Hermione set him to picking out whatever grill items he needed as she went to the counter to inquire about their ground beef selection. Draco selected some packaged chicken breast and a bag of charcoal and was at the cart in less than a minute. Hermione laughed at something the butcher said and he saw the old man's eyes light up. He handed over her order and she turned back to Draco, remnants of laughter lingering on her lips and in her eyes. His stomach gave a funny lurch as their gazes met.

"Only three aisles left," he sighed dramatically.

"Oh, shut it," she muttered and led on.

In all, their shopping trip took forty-five minutes, which, Hermione pointed out tersely, was significantly _less_ than half of the day. Draco replaced the cedar plank so their groceries wouldn't fall out of the truck while Hermione sidled across the driver's seat.

"It may only have been forty-five minutes, but it felt like an eternity." He slammed the door and shoved the key into the ignition. "It almost would have been worth being attacked – would've made the trip much more exciting."

Hermione slammed her hand against the dash, startling him into stillness. "That's it! You're being a complete prat! I'm sorry that shopping with me is such a _trial_ for you, but you're going to have to get used to it! Just like you're going to have to get used to me taking breakfast on the deck and sitting in your favorite chair and using your bloody towels!"

Her eyes snapped away from him. Draco expected to feel angry, but in its stead was the weird, tired feeling from yesterday. Guilt?

He looked away from her. The engine turned over on the second try this time and they rumbled back to the cottage in an uneasy silence. Silence – even the uneasy ones – usually didn't bother him, but this one was different. This one felt wrong.

"Hermione..."

"_Jean_, Draco! Call me _Jean_! Merlin's pants, why are you so intent on ruining this for me?"

Draco grimaced. An argument was better than nothing, he supposed.

"Ruining it for _you_? More like ruining it for me! You're temporary, Granger. Once your Ministry withdraws the broom from its arsehole and realizes that I'm not in any danger and that talent like yours is so _obviously_ wasted on scum like me, you're gone! But I have to keep living here! I have to deal with the kinks you've already put into my routine!"

"Like I'm finding this easy," she snapped. "We've already been through this. Neither of us is happy, but we have to try, and it's only been a day, but I _have_ tried! I've made an effort to be accommodating and to stay out of your way, as you obviously don't want anything to do with me. And what have you done? Ignored me. Well, that's fine, I don't mind it. But the one thing we _do _have to do together is a complete disaster –"

"Well, I wouldn't say _complete_..." he muttered. They had got everything on the list, after all.

"We can't spend an hour together without getting on each other's nerves. I knew when I volunteered for this assignment that it was going to be a challenge, but I thought that with your life in danger and your parents being threatened, you might take this seriously."

That stung. "I am taking it seriously!"

"Then prove it! I'm supposed to be on holiday, and we're supposed to be old friends. Start acting like it."

She crossed her arms and sat back against the passenger seat, staring angrily out the front window. Draco glared out at the road, then glanced at the speedometer; he was over the limit. He eased off the accelerator and let the truck coast. The engine wheezed its appreciation. As the truck lost speed, Draco's anger dissipated.

"Despite how it may seem, I am trying," he said quietly. "This isn't… This isn't easy for me."

Hermione made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.

"I care very deeply for the lives of my parents."

"I know you do," she said quietly, her tone apologetic. Draco did not make her say it. He could tell she was still upset, though not as thoroughly as before, and tried for a subject change.

"I thought you said this mission was given to you. Now you volunteered for it?"

"Doesn't matter," she snapped.

Draco stole a look at her and smirked. He would leave it alone for now, but there was definitely more to _that_ question than she was telling him. For today, however, it looked as if she would continue speaking to him. He wasn't sure if it was a gift or a curse, but it was infinitely better than angry silence or fighting.

He realized the moment they started unpacking the groceries that it might have been a curse.

"You shouldn't keep the meat and cheese in the door shelves. The door is warmer than the rest of the refrigerator, so the food will spoil faster if you leave it there. Must we put the bread in that cupboard? It's above the stove and I can hardly reach it. I don't want to bother you every time I want a sandwich. Where's your spice rack?"

He hardly had any spices, and certainly not enough to require a separate rack. He told her so and she glared at him for his cheek. They finished unpacking in stony silence, one that he did not feel the urge to break. Hermione disappeared into her bedroom for a few minutes and Draco wondered if he had really been rude enough to prompt a fit of sulking from her. When she emerged a few minutes later wearing a sundress, a large pair of sunglasses, and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat, he knew better.

"I'm going to the beach," she announced. "Are you coming?"

"No." He did not think he was ready for that.

"Fine. I'll tell the neighbors you've fallen ill." She gathered two books and brushed by him. She smelled like coconut tanning oil; Draco nearly changed his mind.

"As long as they don't bring over any casseroles," he snarked, but she ignored him and was out the door before he could feel affronted by her dismissal.

Draco watched her until she disappeared down the steps to the beach. He really was making a right mess of things, but he wasn't quite sure what else he could do. He thought back to his early years at Hogwarts and how comfortable they had been. Everyone had had his or her own place. Draco had been the Slytherin prince, Hermione had been the Gryffindor protégé. He'd hated everything about her, she'd loathed him. He had openly antagonized her, she had taken it with quiet conceit. They had both been young, both proud, both actors in a story that would change not only their lives, but the entire magical community. It had been easy to play the part when all he'd had to do was read the script.

But the farce had ended, and its players were free to act as they wanted. Draco wasn't sure what he wanted, unfortunately.

He had a few ideas, the first and foremost of which was to be left alone. That's why he had moved to Canada. He was tired of the gossip, the stares, the whispers, the _exposure_. The Malfoys were a prominent family and no strangers to a certain amount of attention, but when he could not venture into Diagon Alley without being bombarded by reporters? When he could not take his mother for a night at the theatre without having to draw his wand to defend her? When he could not even sneeze without bringing down the Spanish bloody Inquisition? It was too much. He needed to escape.

On the shores of Lake Huron, Draco found the solace he so desperately craved, and it had rehabilitated him. He felt stronger. Ready to go back to his mother, who missed him terribly, and his father, who had so much still to teach him. Yet days had passed and Draco had not gone home.

Did he _want_ to stay here? As much as he missed his parents, and though he felt ready to shoulder responsibility, his was a simple life. Living alone required him to care about no one but himself. He experienced freedom in a way that he could not at Malfoy Manor.

Some – specifically, his father – would say returning to Wiltshire was his duty. Draco scowled at the thought and fisted his left hand, watching his tendons ripple beneath the Dark Mark. Hang duty. He'd had his fill of it at the hands of a maniac Lord and had no inclination to serve anyone so completely ever again.

But what did he _want_?

Draco's stomach growled, and he smiled as the answer presented itself

A sandwich. He wanted a sandwich.

He indulged his appetite with turkey and Swiss on wheat with a side of crisps, a pickle spear, and a tall glass of lemonade. He made toward the kitchen table, then glanced outside. It was sunny. Golden motes of pollen drifted on invisible wind currents, rising and falling, disappearing into the shade. A robin hopped along the grass, cocking its head from side to side and pecking at the ground for food. Its mate was not far off and Draco felt a small twinge of loneliness.

Could what he want be companionship? It should have been simple, but, considering his current companion, the idea was more complicated than Advanced Arithmancy.

He took his plate outside and ate on the deck, which sat on a bluff overlooking the beach. He could see Hermione through the thick foliage. The lake was calm today and she was in the water up to her neck, looking out at the blue expanse before her. Draco followed her gaze and wondered if she was imagining the rocky shores of the United States on the other side.

She ducked beneath the surface and was gone for a full minute, reappearing a few yards nearer to shore. He was grudgingly impressed at how long she could hold her breath, but the feeling turned to panic as she started walking toward the shore. Her brown hair was heavy with water and, though Draco could not see details, he could tell she wore a bikini. Stomach. Leg. Chest. _Skin_. Bronzing, sculpted, and beautiful. He nearly choked on a crisp when she shook her hair back and wrung it out with her hands, her breasts lifting and stomach stretching taut.

No, he was not ready for the beach with her yet. Not until he could control himself. His erection stirred uncomfortably against his shorts. He grimaced: control was a distant memory.

He tried – and mostly succeeded – to remain impassive as she grabbed a colorful beach towel and ran it over her body, patting at her face, neck, arms, torso, and legs. Then she wrapped it around herself, donned that ridiculous floppy hat, and plunked down in a chair to read. It was better like that, when she was covered up and doing something he expected. She was less dangerous that way.

Less dangerous, but no less entrancing. Draco watched her long after he'd finished his lunch. She hardly moved except to stretch or turn the page, and her stillness gave him a little peace. His thoughts were ill-formed and wandering, but the question of companionship and desires seemed more obviously answered the longer he looked at her. Could he be friends with her? Did he _want_ to be friends? His traitorous body seemed to know what it wanted well enough, but he was not such a slave to his lust as many liked to think.

Draco's spine stiffened when she rose from her chair. He was prepared to dart out of sight, unwilling to be caught staring at her from afar, but she simply stretched, letting the towel fall away from her body as she did so. His groin sprang back to life, apparently determined to make a liar out of him. She shook out the towel, spread it flat on the sand, then lay atop it, stomach-down, to read. After a moment, she stopped. She looked left, then right, and with a single, deft movement, reached back and unlaced the strap of her bikini top. Draco shot to his feet, suddenly dizzy. He needed to take a long walk.

Or a very cold shower.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**June 2**

Squid sits in the corner of The Bloodied Maiden, hidden by shadows and a charm that bends light around him. It works as well as an invisibility cloak as long as he is still.

And he is. Still and silent, his hands folded on the bar before him. He is scowling, a fierce expression noticed by no one. He taps his fingers in impatience and frustration.

It had all been going so well.

Two weeks ago, he and Ape moved from planning and logistics to implementation. Ape knew the wards, knew the defenses, and convinced Squid that he knew the capabilities of the Manor's owners. On their first two visits, there was no reason to doubt. On the third, they ran into a very vocal, magically adept house-elf. It stunned Ape and would have done the same to Squid had he not run it through with a piercing hex.

All that blood. All that mess. All for nothing.

The creature sent its warning before it perished. The Malfoys, cloaks streaming behind them like war banners, their wands raised in attack, descended upon him. Ape unconscious, the elf bleeding out… What else was there to do but run?

And it had all been going so well!

Squid slams his hand against the bar, his space earning a sideways glance from the barman but no further inquiry. He takes a breath to calm himself, but does not shut his eyes.

He can think of what should have happened for the rest of his life, but it will do him no good. He must think of what will happen, what he is going to do to salvage the mess.

They are well past intimidation. The Malfoys can no longer assuage themselves with lies, with the idea that they are imagining things. No, they are well aware of the threat. They will contact the Ministry soon, if they haven't already.

The Ministry will complicate things. Government usually does. Though perhaps they will cock this up as they have so much else. It is too much to hope, however, so he refrains.

He watches others to keep his mind from himself, uncrossing his hands and letting his fingertips graze the handle of his wand. How mundane they are, these humans. He is one of them, to an extent, connected to them by his biology and not much else. But where these sacks of flesh are purposeless, drifting, colliding only to fuck or maim, he is focused. He has purpose. He has a calling and the means to achieve it.

Means complicated by a thrice-damned, fucking _elf_.

His rage builds, his fingers rest on his wand, and he fears for a moment that he will lose control and kill the lot of them. Kill them, and then disappear. Disappear…

The door opens, bringing with it an ocean of wind and rain, and the cheery, slurring salutation of a familiar voice.

His fingers cease their twitching, and Squid settles them back upon the countertop. A slow smile – the grin of a predator catching the scent of blood – spreads over his face as Jonathan Baker saunters up to the bar, stumbling the last few steps. He settles into a seat not far from Squid's own.

Squid quickly catalogues the knowns (Name: Jonathan 'Jon' Baker; House: Ravenclaw, but with a dash of Slytherin ambition; Sexual preference: Women; Employment: Magical Law Enforcement Office) and the unknowns (Connection with the Malfoy case; Level of friendliness toward Squid). He watches for a moment longer. Baker's eyes roam the bar, the barman, the women. He lingers over the last group for a few seconds, and his lips quirk up at one corner. Squid feels a rush of warm disgust, but it is not enough to end his observation. Baker turns to the barman and orders a drink.

"Scotch, a double. Neat."

Squid removes the charm and appears next to Baker in less time than it takes the barman to blink. "Make that two."

The barman pauses to stare for a moment. Squid stares back, aware that he is being identified as a predator. He is unfazed by it. Some people could see it. Children and dogs, mostly. Adults with the sight were rarer, but not rare enough to surprise him. Perhaps this barman had seen one too many women leave with the wrong man and never return. Or maybe he simply recognizes kindred.

Squid hardens his eyes, and the barman lowers his chin in mute understanding. Nothing to see here. Move along. Mind your business.

Baker starts and swivels around. Squid plasters a false smile onto his face. Baker is too pissed to discern fake from genuine and so returns the expression.

"Baker," he says with a nod. Usual and refined. There is no need to play the ham.

"Squid!" Baker flings his arms out dramatically, clapping a heavy hand onto Squid's insubstantial shoulders. He pats him hard, much harder than he would have sober. Squid bites into his smile and bears the abuse. It will be worth it.

"How the devil are you?" Baker continues, pulling out a stool.

"Keeping busy." Evasive and vague. There is no need to talk about himself. "Yourself?"

"Bah," Baker snorts, picking up the scotch the barman placed before them. He swirls it and takes a gulp, wincing as it slices down his throat. In a sign of solidarity, Squid takes a sip as well, though his is much smaller. He must keep his senses tonight.

"Work?" Squid asks, trying to sound sympathetic. He doesn't do a good job, but it is enough for Baker, who snorts as he studies the bottom of his glass.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"You're with the MLE Office?"

"Aurors Office," he corrects proudly, raising his glass in a toast to his department. Squid raises his, too; camaraderie, or the appearance of such, is everything to such a target.

"You're certified, then? Auror Baker?"

Baker scowls and tosses back the rest of his drink, signaling the barman for another. Squid abstains.

"No," he says bitterly. "Got pulled off an assignment. Granger…" He pushes air through his teeth, a wet, whistling sound. "You remember her?"

How could he forget? War heroine. Prodigy in almost everything she tried.

Squid shrugs noncommittally. "A few years above me, but yeah. Bookish. Swotty." He winces, but finishes with, "Fantastic arse."

This gets a smile, and Baker lifts his glass once again. "Hasn't changed a bit," he says. "You should see her in dragonhide." Another hiss through his teeth; Squid cannot repress a twitch.

"What about her?"

Baker shoots him an appraising, sideways look, and Squids attempts to look less curious than he feels. After a moment, Baker decides they are both inebriated enough to appreciate the conversation for its shallower qualities. He does not see the intense focus in Squid's eyes, nor how tightly his hand clutches his tumbler.

He shoots Squid a sloppy, conspiratorial smile. "Well, a week or so ago, we get this call. From the _Malfoys_." He breathes an incredulous laugh. "Of all the fucking people to need _our_ help…" Squid obliges his pause with an epitaph of his own. It comes from the depths of whatever heart he could still claim to have. Baker nods solemnly.

"Something set off their perimeter wards," he continues. "Spooked them. Killed up an elf. The old bat gets it into her head that someone's after them. Me? I think it's just that Death Eating bastard having some fun with the creature."

"Got tired of drowning krups, I suppose."

Baker laughs again. "Would lose its charm after a while, I suppose. Never should've let him outta Azkaban."

The darkness coiled in Squid's chest spread like oil into his veins. He knocked back the rest of his drink, wincing at the overlarge gulp. "My thoughts exactly."

"Anyway, MLE notes it, thinks it's a joke."

Squid is surprised and cannot help show it. "Joke?"

"Malfoys didn't see anything, and there's no evidence but an elf with a hole in its chest. Hardly what we'd call _conclusive_."

Squid allows himself a smile and raps the bar with a knuckle. The barman hands him another drink in an instant.

"The Malfoys aren't content with a report, though. They're willing to part with some Galleons to assign a security detail not only on their manor, but also on their fucking scumbag _son_."

"_Draco_." It comes out with a hiss.

Baker snarls. "The one and only. We got there, about to break down his door, and Granger… I fancy she's got a hard-on for him, because she got her knickers in a twist and sent us back to fuckin' Ottawa to catch the first Portkey back." He spread his arms again and gave a frustrated, grimacing smile. "And here I am without an assignment, royally dicked out of the hours I needed to qualify for my field test." He mutters, "Fucking cunt," around a sip of his drink.

"Cunt indeed," Squid agrees with no real feeling. He has never had a problem with Granger, but neither does he consider her a friend. Going through her to achieve his goal is something he can live with quite easily. He does not give her a second thought.

"Ottawa," he whispers, almost silently. Baker hears and, in the spirit of full disclosure, accommodates his curiosity.

"Canada!" he says with a laugh. "Who would ever think it? It's a nice place actually, about sixty miles north of Greyfarer's Rest. Right on the water. Shitehead."

Squid tenses and sets down his glass gently. It will shatter if he moves with the speed and intensity he feels.

"They'll get what's coming to them," Baker says. Squid recognizes the tight, bitter tone, the sinister, darkened eyes, and the twisted, hateful sneer.

He recognizes an ally.

He finishes his drink in two drags and claps Baker on the shoulder. "We should do this again."

Baker smiles at him. "Reckon we should. Going so soon?"

Squid smiles, too, and it is nearly genuine. "The night is young, and I have a lot of work still to do."

Baker nods as if he understands, though of course he does not. Even Squid is not entirely sure of what to do with this new information. It will come to him. It always does. But step one is to find Ape. Only when Ape knows can their plan move forward.

"I'll be in touch," Squid says, dropping enough money on the bar to cover both tabs.

"Next round's on me!" is Baker's happy reply. "See you around."

Squid waves a hand over his shoulder, then draws his hood and casts an Impervius before stepping out into the wind and rain.

He pauses for a moment outside the pub, allowing the night and its elements to swallow him. It gives his mind a moment to clear. Once he feels invisible and secure, he begins the short journey to Ape's flat above Afflicshun's. He disables the shop's pathetic wards and, when he relocks the door, sets ones that are stronger and more complex. He does likewise on the door to Ape's flat. Squid makes a note to teach Ape how to ward properly.

The thought trickles slowly into the back of his mind as he stands over Ape and watches him sleep. It is not long before the Ape's instincts – greatly reduced, though still functioning in slumber – wake him. His eyes blink open slowly, then snap wide.

"Fuck." Ape sits up. The blankets fall away from his broad, bare chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I have found our next step."

Ape runs a hand through his bristly black hair, then rubs his eyes. "Couldn't fucking wait 'til morning?"

"No. Get up."

Ape grudgingly swings his legs over the side of the bed, and Squid gives him his privacy. He sits at the kitchen table and fingers the chipped linoleum while he waits, listens to rain pattering upon the thin roof, the wind whistling through the warped windows.

Minutes later, Ape lurches out of his bedroom in a pair of shorts. His chest is still bare. He joins Squid in the kitchen, withdrawing two tumblers and a bottle of cheap gin out of the cupboard. He brings them to the table and pours them each a few fingers, then flicks his wand over his shoulder. A few candles flare to life. Their weak flames do little to illuminate the small space.

"What the deuce is so important?"

Squid ignores the gin. He clasps his hands together, squeezing his fingers together in excitement. He leans forward and says, "I know where he is."

"Who?"

"Draco."

Ape is silent and slowly turns his glass on the table. One of the candle flames gutters out. "Where?"

"Canada."

Ape furrows his brow and takes a sip of his drink. "Canada? Seems unlikely."

"As likely as anywhere. He's sixty miles north of a place called Greyfarer's Rest. Have you heard of it?"

Ape shakes his head.

"Me neither. The MLE Office got to him first. Granger's there."

Ape's frown turns into a scowl. "Bitch."

"We need to get to him."

"How?"

Squid narrows his eyes. "I was hoping you would have an idea."

Ape looks surprised, though, upon brief reflection, Squid supposes he would. He has never been valued for his ideas, and it is a rare occasion for him to be asked for one. After a minute, he shakes his head. Squid scowls. That is the easy response, perhaps the automatic one.

"That is unacceptable," Squid says tersely. "You have to have something."

"I don't." Ape's voice is tense. He does not like to be pushed. Squid knows this, but does not care. Ape needs the push, and Squid is happy to oblige.

"Bullshite."

Ape's fists clench. "If I did, don't you think I'd know?"

"No, not necessarily. Not right away. Think, Ape. _Think_. Your father was a Death Eater."

"Not a very good one."

Squid waves the sour remark away; he has no time for or interest in Ape's personal baggage. "Irrelevant. He still would have had connections. Knew people who knew people. Kept a fucking Rolodex. _Something_."

Silence hangs between them for a moment, then Ape asks, "Rolodex?"

"Address book," Squid mutters vaguely. He spins the half-full glass and stares into space moodily, ashamed of the slip. "It's a Muggle thing."

The silence returns, but is broken a few minutes later when Ape sets down his glass and rises from the table. Squid ignores him. If Ape does indeed have nothing, then he will simply have to solve the problem on his own.

He needs to get from England to Canada without either government's knowledge.

The scope nearly makes him laugh, or maybe cry, but he remains composed. There has to be a way. Intercontinental Apparition is far too dangerous. They need a government permit to arrange a Portkey, or more likely a string of Portkeys. The Floo system might be an option, but Squid is sure that Malfoy has either disconnected or blocked his. Still, it may be the path of least resistance. But the question remains: _how_?

The slap of leather on wood draws Squid's attention back to Ape, who is smiling proudly. A rare expression.

"My Rolodex."

It is a small leather notebook, extremely worn at the corners and edges, as if it were once thumbed through obsessively. The parchment within is frayed and crumbling, and some scraps stick out at odd angles. Squid reaches for it. As soon as his hand makes contact with the binding, an electric shock shoots up his arm. It is equally surprising and painful, and he launches himself up and backwards, swearing, attempting to shake feeling into his numb limb.

Ape chuckles, which earns a glare from Squid.

"It was my father's." Ape shrugs, as if that explains everything.

And it does. Legacy items often carry blood-specific charms. Only a direct descendant of Ape's family could handle the text. Squid would have bet his finest cauldron that only a direct descendant could read it, too.

Ape takes a seat and drags the notebook toward him, flipping it open to the first page. The writing is convoluted and twisting. Squid's stomach churns as his eyes struggle to follow it, so he follows Ape's eyes instead. His partner has no such trouble with the text. His eyes scan the first page slowly. Seeing nothing of use, he continues onto the second.

"We're looking for Floo contacts," Squid says, eager to direct Ape's search. "Someone who can authorize a Portkey."

"No. Neither of those."

Squid clenches his teeth together. He is not accustomed to being challenged. "Why not?"

Ape looks up, considers him for a moment, then turns back to the notebook. "There's more than one way to scale a dragon."

Squid frowns. What better way is there than a direct approach? They sit in silence for a long while, and Ape is almost halfway through the book before it clicks. Squid sits up straight, his body tense. The alcohol does little to dull his excitement.

He waits until Ape whispers, "Gotcha," and then he stands.

He is eager to continue.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**June 5 **

Draco lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling tiles. He had been up since dawn and hadn't moved, even though he was hungry and needed to pee.

Today was his twenty-first birthday.

He heard the sound of running water, which meant Hermione was awake. He wondered if she would remember his birthday. That would surprise him. Hell, he doubted she even knew when it was. At least he could expect a letter from his parents today, though he knew what the letter would say.

Narcissa would cajole him to return home and make him feel guilty for leaving in the first place. Though he loved his mother, sometimes she reminded him of a Niffler: when she saw something she wanted, she would not give up until she had it. Tenacity was a trait shared by all Blacks. Draco had found it useful enough in his own lifetime, but often wished that his mother would fixate on something other than him.

Lucius, though not a Black, was no less focused. Subtle attacks on Draco's honor would be hidden amidst updates about the family business. Both of them would hint at the desire for an heir. _That_ was what Draco looked forward to least. Undoubtedly, they expected him to return with a well-bred, wide-hipped, willing witch who was already half in love with him or his fortune. Imagining their disappointment sometimes made him laugh, but more often made him frustrated.

This morning brought the former. If he returned at all, it would probably be with Hermione, who was famously low-born, as obstinate as he was, and about as fond of him as Devil's Snare was of sunlight. Her hips weren't bad, however. Perhaps Narcissa _would _approve.

Draco gave his mind room to roam, but his thoughts never wandered far from the girl who was just a hallway's width away. It would be easier just to admit that she was attractive in a bookish, Granger-y sort of way. Oh Circe, who was he kidding? Hermione was attractive in all the ways a woman could be attractive, and that wasn't just the celibacy talking. She was firm and feminine. Her eyes shone and her laugh – what little he had heard of it – made his heart leap into his throat. Yes, he should just admit it and have a good wank. Maybe it would be easier to talk to her once he imagined all the ways her pink lips could satisfy him. Maybe he could go to the beach with her without exposing himself like some perverted teenager. But if she unlaced her top again...

His cock twitched and Draco knew it was too late. It had been three days since he last masturbated and he could no longer forestall the inevitable: he needed release. His gripped himself firmly and closed his eyes, all the while wondering if she would do it better. He surrendered to his fantasies, dark, wild scenarios that fueled his lust and made his heart pound. Sooner than he would have liked but no sooner than he anticipated, his hips jerked forward and he bit his lip, holding back a grunt of pleasure. It wouldn't be enough – it never was, after having had the real thing – but it would do for now.

He wiped himself off and rose from bed, donning a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Then he pressed his ear to the door, listening for her. The cottage was silent. It didn't surprise him: she had taken to eating breakfast on the deck. Maybe he'd join her there, with his orange juice and toast. Maybe they'd talk a little, and maybe, with the advent of a new year, he could try to improve their relationship.

It was a heartening thought, but it carried him no further than the dining room table.

A medium-sized basin made of stone and bronze sat at the head of the table. Beside it was a large vial of a pearly white water. Or was it gas? He had never seen water swirl like that. He approached with caution. He doubted Hermione would set a trap for him, but what if she had caught him staring at her a few days ago? She was fierce when rankled, and he wouldn't put it past her to booby-trap innocuous items if it meant restoring damaged dignity. He circumvented that side of the table to grab his wand, then approached slowly. Stuck under the edge of the basin was a note on the lined paper Muggles preferred to parchment.

_Draco - _

_As I'm sure you already know, this is a Pensieve. The vial to the left contains memories. To view them, simply upend the vial into the basin and lean in close. I've gone to the deck to give you some privacy. I'll be back in a few hours._

_Happy birthday,_

_- Jean_

Draco read the letter several times and looked at the basin and vial again. Yes, it was obvious now that the basin was a Pensieve, though he had never seen a bottle of memories before. He reached for the vial and hefted it in his hands. The glass was cool against his fingers, and he thought he could feel a low thrum of energy from its contents. Whose memories were they? Certainly not Hermione's. She would never let him into such a private place, birthday be damned. His parents', then? That seemed more likely but much more daunting. The letters his mother and father sent kept him more or less abreast of what was happening in England, but to see it through their eyes would be a trying experience.

He silently thanked Hermione for her courtesy and foresight as he uncorked the bottle and tipped its contents into the shallow basin. With a deep breath, he leaned forward, bracing himself for the unknown. Then he was falling. A stone floor rushed up to meet him, to kill him or break his legs, but he landed without noise or discomfort, as if he had been standing there the entire time.

He couldn't feel anything – no chill, no wind, no damp – but his surroundings looked all three. Stone floor met stone walls, which met stone ceiling, and Draco wondered where he could be when he heard a woman's voice beside him. A crisp, clean voice he would know anywhere.

"Narcissa Malfoy to see Lucius Malfoy."

Draco turned on the spot and nearly collapsed. There she was, standing not a hand's breadth away from him. Draco had been taller than she ever since fifth year, but she looked even more diminished to him now. Thinner, perhaps, and certainly older. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that had not been there before. Draco felt a sudden flood of shame: he had done this to her.

"This way," said the guard. Draco followed as the guard led her down a hallway to the right, through a door, up a flight of stairs, and through a pair of double doors labeled "Hospital" in thick black letters. He gasped in unison with his mother as their eyes landed on the ward's only occupant.

"Lucius," Narcissa whispered and rushed to his bedside. Draco stood at the door, struck motionless in shock.

His father was a wraith, a mere shadow of his former self. His full, muscular body had withered down to skin and bone and his face was just as hollowed, all cheekbones and dark shadows hidden behind a thin, pitiful excuse for a beard. His long blond hair fell lank and stringy about his shoulders.

"How is he?" His mother's question cracked the air like lightning. "Healer Swenson?"

"Here, Mrs. Malfoy. I apologize for not meeting you directly." A thin, pale man who looked like the Reaper himself joined Narcissa at Lucius' bedside. Draco approached them slowly. "The flux has taken much of your husband's strength. He can take a little broth and honeyed water, but no solid food. He sleeps fretfully and is catatonic when he wakes."

"What about his magic? Can he still…"

Swenson shook his head. "I can't tell. He's been too weak to perform even simple spells, but that could be due to the decreased power of the diagnostic wand. It would be clearer if he was allowed his own, but under the circumstances…"

Narcissa winced slightly and Draco echoed her expression. Lucius' wand had been destroyed in Voldemort's duel with Potter. He had not had time to procure a new one before his incarceration. and, his history with Ollivander being what it was, it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to procure another of such high quality after his release.

"We would know more if he were recovering faster, but… Mrs. Malfoy, perhaps you should sit down." Narcissa paled and seemed to sway where she stood. She nodded absently and descended into the spindly bedside chair.

"I will not lie to you, Mrs. Malfoy. Your husband is in dire need of expert medical care. He needs facilities and equipment that I simply do not have here, despite my requests." Swenson's frown deepened. "If he stays here much longer, I'm afraid you'll have to begin making… arrangements."

Narcissa let out a shuddering sob. The healer laid his hand comfortingly on her shoulder and Draco's esteem for the man grew exponentially. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy. Truly."

"Is there anything?" Narcissa gasped. Her hand closed over Lucius' bony fingers. "_Anything_ I can do? Money is no matter, and my family, we may not be as we were, but..."

Swenson sighed. "Azkaban's policy on outside consultations for medical purposes is a process that takes three months. Your husband simply does not have that time. I've spoken to Warden Robinson, and he is willing to expedite the process. Lord Malfoy could be in St. Mungo's by next week, but a more _personal_ appeal on Lucius' behalf would be required. Those are his words, not mine," Swenson said.

Narcissa's furious glare softened, but her tone was tempered steel. "Does that man's greed know no limits?"

"I'm afraid not. You should speak to him as soon as possible. Today, even. And be prepared for a fight: we both know Robinson's attitude toward the imprisoned."

"He should never have been made warden," she spat. "Any man who would consider _Muggle _methods of execution..." She shuddered.

Swenson scowled. "Barbaric," he whispered in agreement.

There was a moment of silence, then Narcissa rose. "Thank you, Healer Swenson." She grasped the old man's hand firmly in her own. "I will not forget your kindness."

"You are most welcome, Mrs. Malfoy. I am sorry I cannot do more. The best of luck to you both."

The ward began to vanish, allowing Draco a moment's respite. His father's illness had been much more serious than Narcissa had described. He felt a sudden flare of anger. She shouldn't have lied to him. The man was his father. He had a right to know!

Anger ebbed almost immediately into guilt. She shouldn't have _had _to lie to him. Draco should have been there to see his father's decline firsthand. He shouldn't have left them like he did, with no word or warning, and he should have returned the moment his father became ill. That was what a good son would have done. That was what a good _person_ would have done. Had he forfeited his right to be called either? Had he _ever_ had that right?

The blackness swirled and reformed around him. Instead of a dark, unfamiliar setting, he was in his parents' bedroom at the Manor. It was a large room with yellow-gold walls and pale green and brown accents. Draco thought the décor would throw many people off guard if they were ever to see it. Most probably thought Lucius slept in a coffin and that Narcissa, who had married a Slytherin king and sired its prince, chose only to decorate in shades of green. In fact, his father enjoyed a rather large bed and his mother's favorite color happened to be crisp, cerulean blue, which she incorporated into every room she frequented.

It was Draco's favorite color, too, but more for the memory associated with it rather than the shade itself.

Beside his mother's vanity was the bedroom's cerulean accent: an ancient Ming vase. As a child, Draco had been fascinated with it because _she_ was fascinated with it, and it drove her to distraction when he touched it. One evening, Narcissa had been at her vanity donning jewelry for a party. Draco – who had already been clothed in his nicest and most uncomfortable dress robes – whinged next to her until she sent him away to find his father. He stomped his foot in a fit of temper and exploded the vase, embedding shards of glazed clay inches deep into the yellow-gold walls.

His mother cried out in surprise. The enormity of what he had done struck him immediately, so he did what any self-respecting four–year-old would have done. He ran. He ran fast and true and straight into his father's arms, who had come rushing at the sound of Narcissa's distress. He caught Draco around the middle and swung him into the air, bearing him back toward the scene of the crime.

Lucius's arms held him securely as Narcissa related the vase-exploding incident. Draco was too afraid and ashamed to look at his mother, so kept his head buried in his father's shoulder, fighting (unsuccessfully) to keep his tears at bay. If he had looked, however, he would have seen Narcissa's tender gaze and Lucius's proud smile.

In gentle tones, his mother explained to Draco what had happened: he had had his first experience with magic. And, while this was a reason to celebrate, it meant that Draco had to be careful from now on not to break any more of his mother's beloved pottery. He nodded and mumbled a soft but sincere, "Sorry, Mother." Narcissa kissed him on his forehead, smooth his hair, and dismissed them both.

As Lucius carried him away, he whispered in Draco's ear. "I've wanted to destroy that vase for years. Today, you did what your father never would have had the courage to do."

Almost seventeen years later, shards of cerulean still stuck out of the yellow-gold wall. The vase had never stopped being Narcissa's favorite.

Draco shook himself. He missed his parents terribly, yes, but that was not the memory he was here to see. He turned toward his parents.

His father was still bedridden, but his skin was less pale and he had gained a bit of weight. Weight gain meant his body was taking food. Draco felt a surge of relief: the flux must have been in remission. Narcissa sat in a chair by his bedside, reading. She looked considerably healthier, too. Less tired. Draco smiled; it was nice to see her like that.

Lucius groaned and moved his head. Narcissa's book fell to the floor with a thump.

"Suppy!" A house-elf appeared by his mother's elbow. "Suppy, he's waking. Inform Healer Swenson at once." The elf nodded and disappeared with another sharp noise. "Lucius? Lucius, darling, can you hear me?"

"Narcissa?" His voice was weak, barely a whisper.

"Yes! Oh, yes, Lucius, it's me!" She pressed trembling lips to his forehead in a tender kiss.

"Where are we?"

"At the Manor, dearest, in our bedroom." His father's eyes asked a question that she could read despite their hooded and sunken quality. "I persuaded Robinson to call a Ministry hearing. They issued a revised sentence on account of the severity of your illness. You've been placed under house arrest for the next twenty years. Robinson wanted to throw you back into Azkaban after you recovered, but because of the high relapse rate of the flux, you were allowed to come home. _Home_, Lucius!"

His father gave a weak smile. "And Draco?"

Draco reached toward his father's hand. "I'm here, Father," he said softly.

"Still abroad," Narcissa replied, looking stricken. Draco felt his shame burn hotter.

"You'd think he would come home for his dying father."

"Barely recovered and already grousing," she teased. "And you aren't dying anymore. I told him about your illness but downplayed the severity. He needs time. You know that."

Lucius looked disgruntled. "_I_ need time with _him_, Narcissa. The business..."

"Oh hush, you've just woken. Let the council handle the business. They've managed fine without you so far. Until Healer Swenson gives you leave –"

"Swenson? From Azkaban?"

"He helped me get you back," said Narcissa tenderly, smoothing his hair. "Mungo's suggested a live-in Healer until you were out of danger. Swenson was stagnating in that old prison. He's been a great comfort to me these past weeks, and his devotion to you has been unwavering. We owe him a great deal."

His father groaned softly and closed his eyes. "I remember a time when the Malfoys were the ones _owed_."

"Times have changed," Narcissa said gently and placed another kiss on Lucius' brow. "Now where is Swenson? He'll want to look you over befo –"

The room disappeared and Draco felt a moment of panic. He was not ready to leave them yet. He wanted to see more, to hear more, and he got his wish as the memory stream continued to flow. The blackness swirled and writhed around him, never forming fully. The series of memories he experienced were engulfed in a haze that never really disappeared, but thickened and thinned as one scene shifted to another. None of the memories gave him more than a glimpse into life at the Manor.

Narcissa tended the gardens, her fresh appearance out of place among the earth and stone. She trimmed roses and pruned bushes while whispering words Draco could not understand, spells and enchantments to promote growth and recovery and beauty.

Lucius read by the library fire. Snow fell thickly outside, and his mother entered with two cups of cocoa dosed heavily with crème liqueur. The smile on his father's face was one Draco had never seen before. He realized then, very suddenly and very deeply, just how much they loved each other.

Lucius stood at the head of a grand mahogany table before applauding council members. He seemed to have real need of his cane now, and Draco saw the effort he put into standing on his own. His chest swelled with pride. His father was a strong man. It would take more than illness to end him.

Narcissa stood at threshold to Draco's old room. She was crying. Lucius came up behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her into the protection of his chest and whatever comfort his proximity could give her.

Then the fog cleared and Draco stood before both of his parents. They were in the sunroom surrounded by bright green plants, seated on a white wicker sofa padded with cerulean cushions. Glasses of white wine perspired on the table before them and the sun shone gently, preparing to set for the evening, giving them an ethereal aura.

"Hello, Draco, and happy birthday," said Narcissa. She smiled at him and Draco smiled back, not caring that they could not see him. "I hope you found the memories we sent enlightening. I won't apologize for keeping the truth of your father's illness from you. We both understand and respect your need for space. I just hope that it won't affect your decision to come home.

"We miss you very much and wish we could be with you to celebrate today. We hope you enjoy the basket we've sent. It's your favorite dinner, prepared just the way you remember. I believe you have your father to thank for the whiskey," she deadpanned, "though hopefully you won't be enjoying either gift alone. We would have sent a basket sooner, but the Canadian Ministry strictly controls magical imports and the approval application is notoriously tricky to come by. We have Ms. Granger to thank for pushing our application through in time."

"Regarding Ms Granger," his father said hesitantly. His silver eyes darted sideways to glance at Narcissa, who stared at him a little ferociously. He cleared his throat and continued. "Draco, I've made mistakes. It took almost dying for me to realize most of them and barely surviving to realize what impact they might have had on you. I... I apologize for the pain I've caused both you and your mother, and I hope one day you might forgive me."

Narcissa took his hand and smiled at him. She had forgiven him a long time ago. So had Draco.

"I do hope you are treating Ms Granger kindly. She was not our first choice for this... venture, but she has treated us with respect and has ensured that we receive the same from her coworkers. She's bright and capable, regardless of her..." – Narcissa's hand tightened around his – "_unfortunate_ _beginnings_…" She gave another squeeze, hard enough to make Lucius wince. "With our family," he amended delicately. Draco laughed aloud. It was progress, but Lucius still had some distance yet to go.

"Listen to her," Narcissa said. "She has our family's best interests at heart. Make us proud, dearest. You'll always have our love and our support, no matter your choices." She finished with a significant look that Draco could not quite puzzle out. Perhaps it was simply a glitch of the Pensieve.

He basked in his parents' smiles as the memories faded for good. Then he was falling away, soaring without direction until he was back in the cottage, staring at the Pensieve with tear-filled eyes. To the right of the bowl materialized a large basket of covered silver platters, two bottles of Firewhiskey, and a thick roll of parchment labeled _Malfoy Holdings Yearly Report_. He laughed, fingered the parchment, and turned as the side door opened.

It was Hermione, but the sun shone in such a way that she looked like so much more. For an instant, she was a forest nymph, wild and beautiful, with sun-kissed cheeks, bright eyes, and shining hair. Draco's heart stuttered in his chest, and he suddenly knew what his mother's look had meant.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Draco. I thought you would be..." Hermione cocked her head at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." His voiced cracked. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm fine. I just saw the memories, that's all."

She nodded sympathetically. "I can give you more time, if you'd like."

"No, you don't have to do that. I'm..." He took a deep breath and forced a smile. "I'm fine."

She looked skeptical, but nodded. "Well, wait right there. I've got something for you, too." She disappeared into her room and appeared less than a minute later, holding a box wrapped in colorful paper. She offered it to him. Forgetting himself, he stepped away. She frowned at his rudeness. "It's not a Skrewt, Draco."

"You shouldn't have done this," he said quietly. This changed things. This changed _everything_.

She looked at him, confused. "Maybe you should open it first and then decide. Here." She held it out to him again, shaking it slightly. This time, he accepted it. Feeling weak, he set the box on the table and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a modest selection of Honeydukes' sweets: Chocolate Frogs and Pepper Imps; Fizzing Whizzbees and Bertie Bott's. She had brought him all the best parts of home.

His hands rested limply over the box and he stared at her in bewilderment. "Why?" he asked softly.

She looked just as confused as before and more than a little uncertain. "Honeydukes isn't an international chain. You've been away from England for so long, so I thought you would like a reminder of what you left behind." She glanced at Narcissa's humongous basket. "I guess it's a bit redundant now."

"No," he said sharply. "No, that wasn't what I meant. This is..." He looked from her to the brightly wrapped sweets and stalled. What was this? A peace offering? A clean slate? Or simply an unselfish act of kindness? "Unexpected," he finished lamely.

Her expression faltered. "Oh. Well, yes, I suppose you're right. I was just going to get your favorite, but Narcissa refused to tell me what it was, so I just got you a bit of everything."

"The Whizzbees," he said quietly. "Those are my favorite."

Just like that, her smile was back in place. "Next time, then." She turned to go to the kitchen.

"What are yours?"

She stopped and turned to look at him, puzzled once more.

"Your favorites?" he clarified.

"Sugar quills," she answered with a guilty smile. "I know they're just about the worst things for you, but I can't help it. My parents' fault, I suppose. They're dentists – they work with people's teeth – so my sugar consumption was limited when I was a child. There are a couple boxes beneath the imps and the frogs. I got the new flavors - kiwi-passion fruit and peach punch. I've heard good things."

Draco nodded. "We'll have to try them later. Thank you, Hermione, for... For everything."

She smiled at him – _really _smiled – and Draco felt like he was falling through the Pensieve all over again.

"You're welcome, Draco. And call me Jean."

"Jean." It came out like a purr. She flushed, and Draco enjoyed the reaction much more than he should have. "I'll try." And he meant it.

That was the first day they spent any significant time together. After a quiet breakfast on the deck, he set up a chair beside hers in his favorite patch of sunshine and they read in companionable silence. He brought her a glass of lemonade in the afternoon and nearly spilled it down his front when she smiled at him once more.

Feeling confident, he invited her to the beach. She looked up from her book, shading her eyes from the sun, and considered him for a long moment.

"No, you go ahead."

He nodded, feeling strangely rebuffed. The day had been going so well. It felt like they had crossed some sort of barrier. Or maybe only he had crossed it. She had ignored that invisible line the moment she walked through his door six – had it really only been _six_? – days ago. The beach was supposed to be another barrier, another almost insurmountable hurdle, as silly as that sounded. If he could make it through a beach trip without making an arse out of himself, then he would know.

Know what, exactly? That he was adult enough to look at a female without embarrassment? That he was mature enough to move past what had happened between them all at Hogwarts? That he could tolerate Granger? No, _Hermione_? Curses, _no_! _Jean_?

The water did surprisingly little to dispel his unease, and he found himself beginning to resent her just a little. Hermione couldn't just come into his life, treat him kindly, bring him the best birthday gifts he had ever received, and then abandon him. It didn't work like that. Though refusing to go to the beach with him the first time he asked couldn't really be classified as 'abandonment,' could it? It didn't bear thinking about: Draco felt lonely, and it was clearly her fault.

Having reached that satisfying (if somewhat inaccurate) conclusion, Draco emerged from the water. He shook out his hair, wrapped his towel around his waist, and climbed the sixty-two stairs back to his little cottage, nursing a bad attitude the whole way and vowing not to give into whatever kindness she sprang on him next.

What he saw on the deck made him eat his words.

A blue and white checkered tablecloth covered the old picnic table, held down on either end by a pair of stubby candles. Hermione gently lowered the basket from his mother onto the table, nearly upsetting the full water carafe. There was only one place setting.

"What are you doing?"

Hermione jumped and turned around. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

"Oh! I, um… Well, I hoped I would have a little more time to set everything up. You see –"

"Granger, why –"

"Don't ask why," she said, a little pleadingly. She looked distressed, as if she couldn't fully justify what she was doing even to herself, and her hands fluttered about the hem of her shirt. "Just accept it and enjoy the evening, okay? I'm almost finished."

Draco frowned and moved past her without another word. He changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a grey t-shirt, though he seriously contemplated a dark-blue button-down with a collar. Then he went into the kitchen and grabbed an extra bowl, plate, and silverware. Hermione walked in on him as he was reaching for a glass.

"What are you doing?"

"Setting the table, as you are apparently incompetent at doing so correctly. I don't blame you, though. I only know how because I had to attend etiquette classes as a child. I can't help it."

"Etiquette classes and yet you can still insult a lady," she quipped sourly.

"_Tease_," he corrected her with an over-the-shoulder glance and grin. "_Tease_ a lady. I skipped that lesson, anyway."

"No surprise there. Did you also skip your ophthalmology appointment? I already set the table."

He did not bother asking what an ophthalmology was. "For one."

"Yes, for one. For… For you."

He halted his quest for a glass and turned to look at her fully. Her brow was furrowed, making her look worried and – dare he even think it? – attractive. Gods above, what was happening to him? And why the devil didn't he have the sense or strength to stop it?

"Etiquette classes, I told you. I can't enjoy a meal if I know a guest is going hungry."

"I was going to eat later. And since when have I been a guest? I thought I was an imposition."

"The way to a man's heart, Granger." Her eyes widened considerably and she blushed again, unable to maintain eye contact. Draco grinned. "If I know my mother, she sent more food than I alone can consume. In fact, if I know her at all, she will have sent me just enough for two and is probably praying that my good breeding doesn't fail her now."

"Fail _her_?"

He sighed. "My mother seems to like you. I would be a rather grand disappointment if I treated you poorly when she wishes otherwise."

"So your _mother_ wants me to eat with you."

"I believe so, yes."

Hermione thought that over for a minute and something within her seemed to deflate. Draco wondered what he had done wrong, and his own mood dipped as well.

Then she nodded. "Very well. I would hate to disappoint her."

"Don't tell me you're fond of her as well?"

"I find her very agreeable," she said, holding the door open for him. "What I can't understand is how she can like _you_."

That quickly, the mood lifted.

"Careful, _Jean_. You're well on your way to being demoted to 'imposition' status again."

"Merlin forbid."

The night went on along that vein for quite some time. They ate, joked, and talked about everything and nothing. Then they cleared the table save for a bottle of firewhiskey, two mismatched tumblers, strawberry Whizzbees, and a box of peach punch Quills, and Draco found himself wondering if this was what it was like for those two buffoon friends of hers. Did she make them feel important? Did she make them feel special? Did they even know how good they had it?

Probably not, he decided as he watched the sunset and Hermione in equal parts. People hardly knew what they had until it was gone. In his case, he did not know what he'd been missing until he had it. Pity he had to find out so late, but it was better late than never and Draco, though originally annoyed at her presence, was grateful for her.

In a single day, Hermione had made him feel like the only man in the world.

In a single day, she had become the only woman in his.


End file.
